Snow
A poem by Bosnian poet Mile Stojić, translated by Irena Žlof
Snow
There was a city at the heart of the world
Its streets murmured with the music of a busy day
Its tree-lined paths whispered of lovers' sighs
Its mornings smelled of fresh newspapers and warm bread
Its ladies painted their pretty faces, combed their golden locks
demanding that every day be a testament to their beauty
Its poets pined for its ladies
(it's how it is in every city)
There was a city
caressed by the cold mountain wind from the surrounding hills
caressed by the silk of a girl's scarf
Its narrow squares sang with minarets and belfries
Its roads led to the future and to the world
There was a city at the end of the world
Its streets were overcast with dark clouds, thick smoke
Its trees were cut down to warm the frostbitten hands,
to cook the vapid soup
Its mornings smelled of gunpowder and gore
Its ladies painted their pretty faces, pulled out their dark hairs
To cover up the wrinkles and dark circles of insomnia and fear
There was a city
caressed with cannonades from the surrounding hills
Its narrow squares were soaked in a deadly silence
Its roads led to humiliation and to the other world
There was a city at the heart of the world
Whose temples begged of God
to send upon them the judgement day, the kiyamet
Its graveyards grew rampant, blundered about the sidewalks and street
For seven thousand days, for seven thousand years
The death sneered in a family photo
Embracing our loved ones.
There was a city which got deserted
by gods and men alike, a black scarf covered its face
Its blond nymphs were thrown into the arms of Beelzebub
its young mistresses fed to a cyclops for dinner
There was a city deserted by wise men and poets
Leaving its defence only to the poor and
the wretched
There was a city at the end of the world
which burnt on your table like a flaming torch
but it could not melt the ice, nor warm the unfeeling hearts
No rain to wash away the ash and blood
No wind to blow away the smoke on the streets
tears on the face. No spring to
lure out the buds, the green in the trees, the summer
No hope or the elusive utopia
Only the winter strolls across the wounded sidewalks,
carved up streets. Once again innocence
glistens on the roofs, brought on
by the first snow.
Sarajevo, summer 2009
