In Potkozarje, tears flow by themselves,
like countless, clear and cold springs.
In the crimson of the snowy slopes, the evening gently envelops,
the mantle descends silently on the hillsides and villages.
Turbe in solitude, above a steep road,
shuddered aspen, wounded in both wars.
The memory hurts and wanders for a moment,
they speak the truth, they survive out of spite.
Tonight they will drive people into the unknown in horse drawn wagons,
far from the eyes, even further from the native hearth.
God is forgotten, the ghosts of the past wake up,
warm and tame homes, there will be fires again.
And so the ugly images spin endlessly,
will anyone be ashamed of that tomorrow?
Servants of God bless cannons and soldiers.
“The Lord hears everything, the Lord sees everything”.
In Potkozarje, tears flow by themselves,
Not for a fallen fighter or a famous hero.
A lot of time passes, she burns even more,
after the barefoot mother and the frightened boy.
Meho Jakupovic
