The leaves of the ilex by the graveyard
Whiseper prophetically.
And barley-corn ripens
Like those actors who
In the same role for a hundredth time
Stand forth before the audience.
Yet do not extol
To the skies your native land.
It ought to extol you.
Seen from this cloud
These meadows and fields Are a stamp album;
And to the ant a smoke ring
Twirling from your cigarette
Is a whole new landscape!
And stop threatening for once
To return next time
To this handful of land without history
Only in the shape of a rider in bronze.
And before you leave
Stroke the bark of these trees
Which all the while have given you
Free lessons in standing tall.
Translated from the Bosnian by Chris Agee
