Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
AM LISTENING TO HAUSER
To Stepan Hauser, proficient cellist from Croatia
Am listening to Hauser,
In memory ancient history, soil roads,
The flames in the fire,
From the centuries stretching for freedom
the chained arms …
Am listening to Hauser,
In my dream Croatia –
Western Balkan stars,
In the waters of the Adriatic
fluttering my dreams
waterfall from the “Mysterious garden”.
writing about the flow of life.
Am listening to Hauser,
Sad strings play of victory
Like the power of Branimir’s sword,
the first owner of freedom.
His cello captures
all the boundaries
country by country, heart by heart.
Am listening to Hauser,
Mysterious sounds speak of a nation’s
fate as speakes writing of “Başçan”.
The sound of swords, gun, bullets
Shakes and frightens the sky, the earth.
Am listening to Hauser,
Violancello sometimes angry, sometimes stubborn
Like the raging Sava River.
Am listening to Hauser,
Shivering like a spring breeze
Fragrant like lilacs,
Fragile as a poet’s soul,
The angel’s song is magical.
Am listening to Hauser,
Am waiting for him to carry the burden of evil on his shoulders.
It will unfold
the most innocent of mornings,
A brand new sun will rise.
All the war will be stopped,
Love will whisper.
Am listening to Hauser
I believe the cello
will save the world.
July 28, 2020
Translation by Anit Roy (India)
A POEM IS A DIVINE WORD
A poem is a divine word
It can’t be said at any moment.
It can’t come to life
At any moment you want.
A poem must firstly grow
In the uterus of the spirit.
Then it must be perfect
Then it must either enter the heart
Or must turn to ashes.
In order to write
A drop of poem
Your senses and feelings
Must run like streams
A poem must be written
With the blood of the heart
A poet must be seen
Inside of each hemistich.
GOOD MORNING, ROME!
Good morning, Rome!
Your sun is smiling at me
In the middle of the winter.
Let your morning
That is far from the malice of the world
Be full of light!
Land of Pompei
Where the swords
That cut the shadows of evil
Are shining from a far distance.
Let your mornings
Which are prohibited to oppression
Be full of light!
Hey, Fontana Truvi
Let your waters
That are purling
In the kingdom of wishes
In the intention of lovers
Be full of light!
Good morning, Rome!
Hey, tangerine trees,
On the way of Coliseum,
How good you grow here!
Your branches are heavy with fruits,
But nobody picks any of them
In the unjust fight
The crowns of our life
The tiny children,
Are picked up basket after basket.
Good morning, Rome!
Old, great Vatican!
Let around you always be happy life,
Let you always be flourishing
Let you never witness
To the blood that was shed in vain.
Hey, the stage of theatre of Marcellus!
Let you always be lost in silence!
Be always so-
Being far from the “games”
Played at the world stage.
Enchant my spirit
Let be inspired and write
About your immortal fame.
Good morning, Rome!
I am sowing a handful of hope
On your soil in which poppies grow
In February.
Let those hopes germinate
And have a thousand branches.
Poetry didn’t change us,
Let me dedicate a poem
To humanity.
Let me write a poem
To each green leaf of you
Maybe it might take wings
And guard over the humanity
Good morning, Rome!
Good morning, Rome!
Febrary, 2024, Rome
DON’T LOOK LIKE ME, MY DAUGHTER!
They resemble you to me, my daughter,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
Look at my gray hairs,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
I eat a grief the clock round,
I undress sorrow and put on grief.
I warn you as much as early,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
Hide patience inside of you,
Hide your secrets inside of you,
Hide your face from the sorrow
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
Pay attention neither to creeping shadow,
Nor try to be knocked at any time.
Become flames, try to destroy darkness,
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
All around me are devils,
They don’t let me become myself.
Oh, my darling, try to find your own being
Don’t look like me, my daughter!
Translated to English by Sevil Gulten (Azerbaijan)
