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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 106 | volume  | March-April, 2016



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SLOVOKULT.DE
KRUG
BALKANI
OKF







                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 106March-April, 2016
Poetry

Poetry

Translated from Bosnian: Elizabeta Bakovska


/5
p. 1
Dijala Hasanbegović

GAME
MEASURE
ON RELIGIONS
FILTERS
WOUNDS

_______________________________________________________________________

GAME

    When you grow up, the top of your head stops smelling
    of other people's palms your hair grows over the stitches
    on your skull and your crying remains sewed inside
    forever and comes out of your nostrils and eyes
    when the world starts to quiver in restlessness
    when your chest shakes they tell you
    that your soul aches – actually boiling inside you
    is the first clear painful breath which
    never goes out until you die.
    My grandfather, yes, my grandfather told
    me when I was five he told me
    that everybody can walk all of their lives
    walk, not take a ride, unless going for a long
    trip one should walk unless there is water
    in front of him and the water can be walked over
    and one should take care all of his life
    that crying because of too much pain does not come
    through his nose out of his skull – when it hurts, clench your teeth
    says grandpa, when it hurts close your eyes and walk
    further when the sorrow tears off your fingers shake them off
    and continue feeling the darkness with your feet.
    Today
    I resist the urge to sit at night
    and touch the hair of my children with my eyes
    looking for grandpa's stitches to make sure
    that he had not wasted his life
    with his breath inhaled and his jaw clenched
    as if suffering to make sure that nobody
    simply sews us in and we become
    people and I don't know why would anybody think
    why would anybody ever believe that it was true
    but I have and still every time
    in rage
    and every time
    in tears
    he taught me how to contain and not hide
    I wait for my soul to go out and leave me
    I wait to see on my palms
    myself, liquid and warm and I always look at my palms
    after tears
    pushed out with hardship – there is nothing on my palms
    but shallow basins and river mouths.
    I never told him that he had closed his eyes in vain
    that he frowned in vain that he tried in vain to close every
    opening to close the openings so there is no way out for
    the spirits voices tears breaths in vain
    I realised when I heard the first cry of my child
    that it was long ago when
    the presound screamed in our ears
    the prescream spilled
    and gave the tone to all of our hearing
    and that all first screams are the same that all
    screams
    are the same
    the ones of horror of delight of fear of laughter
    and that our clenched teeth and our frowned eyebrows
    diminish us bury us back
    to our birth and that was my revelation –
    at his death bed I could not close
    his eyes open wide.






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