When something peeps out by the fence, 
                                juts out and tickles 
                                imagination 
                                so that a boy must take a glance 
                                although his thoughts 
                                are so impatient 
                                because he wants to run and be bold— 
                                that something yellow 
                                that's caught our fellow— 
                                that's nothing else but 
                                a marigold. 

                                When something very big and white 
                                flies down to that chimney that clings 
                                and starts waving with its wings 
                                so that a flock of black birds get frightened 
                                and they all fly off the wire that's tightened, 
                                make a pirouette while doing so 
                                and fly down so very low 
                                until they reach that little boy 
                                whom for fun they continue to follow— 
                                these birds are surely 
                                a stork and swallows. 

                                When that boy starts to run down the lane 
                                and then stops because he gets stunned 
                                as he recalls 
                                that he's had enough 
                                of playful tags, 
                                of balls and slings, 
                                of games and gags, 
                                and he turns over on the street 
                                because among so many things 
                                now he wants to have a Grandma's treat— 
                                that's in one word— 
                                the kids' world. 

                                And when you put all that in your heart: 
                                a bold marigold, 
                                swallows so smart, 
                                a stork and games' beats, 
                                your Grandma's treats 
                                and many, many other things… 
                                When they all become so quiet inside 
                                and only sometimes come up in waves 
                                and tell you something 
                                as your heart raves 
                                like it has in a violin— 
                                that's, my dear friend, 
                                the homeland. 

                                Dragana Konstantinovic
                                Translated by the author
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