The Soul’s Keepsakes

We all carry those small sehare of the soul - hidden corners where we keep what time cannot erase.
The scent of home, a voice we sometimes hear only in our thoughts, a folded letter, a colorless photograph - all the things that tie us to what was “once,” and still warm us today.

As I leaf through black-and-white images that have passed from hand to hand for years, I feel as though I am touching time itself.
Those faces, mostly unknown, look back at me with a silence that speaks louder than words.
Within them there is sabur, pride, and that gentleness only Bosnia knows - a peace that cannot be bought, only inherited.

In every photograph, I hear stories that were never written down: laughter behind the stove, the scent of coffee at first light, the whisper of adeti passed from generation to generation.
Everything is simple, yet within that simplicity lives an entire universe of warmth.

And as my fingers trace the yellowed edges, I realize - these are not just photographs, they are bridges.
Bridges between those who were and those who are.
Between their hands and ours. Between “it was” and “it still lives.”

Because the past has not disappeared.
It lives within us - in how we set the coffee, how we guard memories, how we love.
In everything that reminds us that our roots are not only behind us,
but woven into everything we are today.

Svi mi nosimo te male sehare duše - skrivene kutke u kojima čuvamo ono što vrijeme ne može izbrisati.
Miris doma, glas koji ponekad čujemo samo u mislima, presavijeno pismo, fotografiju bez boje - sve ono što nas veže za ono “nekad”, a grije i danas.

Dok listam crno-bijele slike koje su godinama prelazile iz ruke u ruku, osjećam kao da dotičem vrijeme.
Ta lica, većinom nepoznata, gledaju me s tišinom koja govori više od riječi.
U njima ima sabura, ponosa i one blagosti koju samo Bosna zna - mir koji se ne kupuje, već nasljeđuje.

U svakoj slici čujem priče koje nisu zapisane: smijeh iza šporeta, miris kahve s prvim svitanjem, šapat adeta koji su se prenosili s koljena na koljeno.
Sve je jednostavno, ali u toj jednostavnosti ima cijeli svemir topline.

I dok prelazim prstima preko požutjelih ivica, shvatam - to nisu samo slike, to su mostovi.
Mostovi između onih koji su bili i onih koji jesmo.
Između njihovih ruku i naših. Između “bilo je” i “još traje”.

Jer prošlost nije nestala.
Ona živi u nama - u načinu kako postavimo kahvu, kako čuvamo uspomene, kako volimo.
U svemu onome što nas podsjeća da korijeni nisu samo iza nas,
već u svemu što jesmo danas.