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



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

Poetry

Translated from Bosnian: Elizabeta Bakovska


/5
p. 2
Dijala Hasanbegović

GAME
MEASURE
ON RELIGIONS
FILTERS
WOUNDS

_______________________________________________________________________

MEASURE

    People will talk
    people
    always talk.
    People will talk: the woman from the seventh
    floor who flies wrinkles her black skirt
    tied in a knot people will talk
    the woman from the seventh floor who
    disappears in the winter and one can only
    hear her voice sometimes people keep quiet
    but only to confirm
    in the silence of togetherness
    that they have talked that they will talk
    that they know. People know
    that there are pains different than theirs people
    know that there are souls that crumble under
    pain smaller than theirs and that makes them happy:
    the measure of other people's pain in his own makes man eternal.
    People will talk.
    People will sometimes keep quiet to hear a flock of birds
    leaving to sleep in the grove in the early spring evening
    and listen to the earth breathing out humidity and breathing in warmth
    and watch slowly the departure of another day
    in which they measure other people's pain to see
    if they are still there people
    will talk about love people
    will measure my love with their measure
    with their eyes slanted and secretly because love is measured in secret
    and pain always sits on the balcony and ties
    knots on the black skirt.
    People will talk and today I would like all of a sudden
    just like in novels just like in movies
    just like in songs just like passing by
    people measure that our love
    is one of those one does not talk about but
    smiles as it is measured in secret under the red
    bag full of ripe bananas.
    People talk and we walk among them
    our hands firmly pressed together our fingers intertwined
    in knots wet and warm in the summer
    cold and wrinkled in the ankles in the winter.
    People will talk they always
    talk out of the weight of their hours out of fatigue of their steps
    out of pleasure out of hate out of curiosity out of human malice
    out of everything that makes them fragile with the handfuls of feelings
    and nothing more. People will talk
    how we loved each other people will
    talk that you loved me even when
    my voice wandered along empty rooms and madly
    clashed with the walls and when I baked bread
    sweet and sour like children's mornings
    and I kept quiet smiling people will talk
    and all their words will fly away like dandelions
    to the wide open mouth of the sky empty and thirsty
    of human love.






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