I was taught how to love and cherish
that country’s every piece—even small,
that I was part of her which could perish
without her sounds, smells, colors and all.

And I loved pigeons and the blue sky,
and shadows on my favorite street,
I loved street salesmen, trams that went by,
and children playing after a treat.

I loved the rainbow over the town,
loud city noise, street jams that roused,
memories hidden under the crown
of the huge tree behind my house…

And sunny days and evening rains,
and chestnut baked that smelled so nice,
traveling inside those dusty trains,
poems and novels that had no price.

And every forest or meadow broad,
and every mountain that I could see,
and lines on each and every road,
and all those other things around me.

Only when I fled far, far away
where the Sun sets while there still shines,
I got it:  No matter what things say,
It’s someone—people—who draw the lines.

My agitation is now long gone,
it’s only memories I still see…
I’m no more a part of that lawn,
that country is now a part of me.

Dragana Konstantinovic
Translated by the author
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