Pesma o detetu koje nije tvoje
A Poem About a Child That Isn’t Yours
by Meri Grubić
~Pesma o detetu koje nije tvoje~
Kako smo stigli dovde?
U svet gde deca leže
pod zapaljenim nebom,
a anđeli se uvlače u pukotine zida
skrivajući u krilima poslednje mrvice nade.
Tamo
jutro peče.
Dani se teško gutaju,
kao pesak u ustima.
Vazduh miriše na kiselo.
Zvuk prekasno izgovorenih imena.
Dete na ogradi straha,
drži deo lutke
kao poslednji dokaz
da je svet nekad bio nežan i mek.
Asfalt je vreo.
Majka jeca imena
koja je nekad s pažnjom birala.
Kiša stoji nad gradom
i ne sme da padne.
Bog ćuti.
A ovde
kafa je topla.
Tost je reš.
Serije se nižu.
Jastuk je pod leđima.
Daljinski u ruci.
Mi kažemo:
nije moje dete.
Nije moj rat.
Moj dan je bio pretežak.
Moj hleb tvrd.
Moje srce – zauzeto.
Okrećemo glavu
da nam ne pokvasi tepih
tuđa krv sa ekrana.
Tamo
noć nema kraj.
Očaj govori glasnije od molitve.
Tuga je jedini vladar.
Ovde
utišamo ton.
Prebacimo kanal.
Kažemo:
i ovo će proći.
Ali dete gleda.
Dete pamti.
Pamti duže
nego što traje rat.
Duže
nego što traje naše opravdavanje sebe.
Hej, svete –
to dete nije tvoje.
Zato ne plačeš.
Ali sram –
Sram, ostaje da žulja,
tiho, dugo, ponekad i večno
kao kamen u cipeli
koju ne smeš da izuješ, jer ćete
podsetiti na to, ko si…
English Translation: A Poem About a Child That Isn’t Yours
How did we get here?
Into a world where children lie
under a burning sky,
and angels crawl into the cracks of walls,
hiding the last crumbs of hope in their wings.
There,
morning burns.
Days are hard to swallow,
like sand in the mouth.
The air smells sour.
Names spoken too late echo.
A child on the fence of fear
clutches a fragment of a doll
as the last proof
that the world was once gentle, soft.
The asphalt is hot.
A mother sobs the names
she once chose with care.
Rain hangs over the city,
afraid to fall.
God is silent.
And here,
the coffee is warm.
The toast is well done.
Shows roll one after another.
A pillow under the back.
The remote in hand.
We say:
it’s not my child.
Not my war.
My day was too heavy.
My bread hard.
My heart – taken.
We turn our heads
so the stranger’s blood on the screen
won’t wet the carpet.
There,
night has no end.
Despair speaks louder than prayer.
Sorrow reigns alone.
Here,
we soften our tone.
Switch the channel.
Say:
this too shall pass.
But the child watches.
The child remembers.
Remembers longer
than the war lasts.
Longer
than our excuses for ourselves.
Hey, world –
this child is not yours.
So you do not cry.
But shame –
Shame lingers to chafe,
quietly, endlessly, sometimes forever,
like a stone in your shoe
you dare not remove,
because it will remind you
who you are.
About Meri Grubić
Meri Grubić’s poem is in the Serbian language.
