CRY, THE BELOVED COUNTRY

By Dobrica Eric

Cry, the Beloved Country*, and light with your tears' powers 
the thought smoldering in the desire that can never
rest.                                                            
Of all the tears that are shed now on this Planet of ours,                   
it's the tears of My Country's children that are the saddest.

       Who shall, and what with, for all those Children's Tears pay,                               
for fear, no sleep and happiness which into the unknown soar?
Who shall give back the children everything taken from them away, 
by this evel, containd within one single and short word - war? 

Cry Beloved Country, lonely and stigmatized unfairly.                        
Your tears have long entered the Collections of Poems true.                                                               
You have lifted all your Children's bones from the pits barely,
When your Children are being thrown into bottomless pits anew. 

You who are destroying Churches, huts and palaces all,
you fanatic warriors, man-haters, sun-eaters wild,
who are you making now this New Life and New Word for, 
when children from you in the forest, among the beasts hide?

Cry, Beloved Country, the tears of the   bereaved Mother
of children who in wolves' and fox' lairs underground school.
Whith their fathers and mothers pointing guns at one another,
while their uncles the knives at them and at one anather pull. 

Let the looks and the guns pointed now at all  Children's hearts
and at the White Birds above all the trenches turn to stone.
What kind of life can there be when a Child from this Life parts? 
From whom shall the dawn break above Children's Graves, all alone?

There is not a Flag in this rotten world, and there should not be,
no matter what it's made of, pure silk or the velvet soft,
deserving the wind fluttering it for the world to see,
if with drops of Children's blood it's sprinkled so very oft.

Cry, Beloved Country, in the jaws of the dragon mean,
(and let there be more of You, at least in the Tears you shed),
until All Three Gods take pity on You, till they have seen,
and cease the death thrown among men and dogs, among the dead. 

Take a look at youy Children, at those old faces of theirs,
youngsters with crutches, learning to walk now, like their fathers, 
helpless and withered Infants all sitting in their wheelchairs,
graves with no names, with no tombstones, 
and the grief Crazed Mothers,
and homeless Old Men, in plum, orchads, alone or in pairs,
burnt out sticks, staring into the sky, like many others.

Cry, Beloved Country, and light with your tear's powers 
your heart beating within the desire that can never rest.
Of all the tears that are shed now on this Planet of ours,
it's the tears of My Country's children that are the saltiest. 

(1992)

*I borrowed the title from an old book,
the words from the People  
and the Tears from the Children: 
the Anguish is all mine.

(Translated by Mladen Jovanovic)

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