SLAVKA KLIKOVAC

Stolen Life

You are a paper boat,
Anchored in the sea of my tears.

You gather the morning mist
From my pupils;
You rob me of the moon's charm.

With my eyes, you look from the deck of the boat...
Even them, from me, you stole!

My soul with the morning twilight, you drink,
My lips wrinkled from agony, you steal.

What am I going to do without the lips
Whispering hope to existence?

My ears ring from a breakable anchor;
The word happiness gets out of sense.

I want my anchor,
To write, with it, the word happiness.

And the helm of my thoughts,
With hands, clumsily you grab,
My insides, in a knot, you tie,
The relief of the seabed, you create.

What am I going to do without the thoughts you stole?

Give me my pupils back,
It's not their fault,
That they recognize hands like a live coal,
Burnt by your disappearance.

What am I going to do without your pupils,
Stirring darkness to find a way?

For a day, sunken in the fog,
I seek the sun, so I can, 
A figure in the shade, find. 

I shove my palms in my teeth,
To silence a shriek.

A shadow bleeds in my unbridled fist;
Not even my shadow alive is...

A withered chest to me,
You didn't leave,
The food for the pledge of my blood;
It built a bosom shield.

You seize my driving forces,
That, into the target of an eye, you split,
And into the power of reproof, build.

How to, without a sigh, release a poison,
While, with dirt, you cover my wounds.

If you take my tears, too, their sea,
Your safe harbor will be.

When a stern against a dock, their tide breaks,
Sails away, the storm of sighs takes,
And tears splash against a masthead,
I will know then
In a tear, you and my stolen life live.

1590


UKRADENI ŽIVOT

Papirni  brod si 
usidren u moru mojih suza.

Sakljupaš jutrnju izmaglicu 
iz mojih zjena, 
mjesečevu mi otimaš čar.

Očima mojim gledaš  s palube broda... 
I njih mi uze!

Dušu mi osvitom jutra piješ, 
usne mi izborane  patnjom kradeš.

Šta ću ja bez usana što nadu su
postojanju šaputale?

Sluh mi  lomnim sidrom  zveči.
Riječ sreća ote se iz smisla.

Hoću svoje sidro
da rijec sreća njime napišem!

I kormilo mojih misli,
 nespretno rukama grabiš, 
utrobu mi u čvor vežeš, 
dnu mora reljef  gradiš.

Šta  ću ja bez misli što ukrao si?

Zjene mi moje vrati,
 nijesu one krive 
što prepoznaju ruke kao ugarke 
spržene nestankom tvojim.

Šta ću ja bez zjena svojih 
što razgrtale su tamu da put pronadju?

Tražim sunce danu,
potonulom u magli,
u sjenci lik da pronđem.

Dlanove zarivam u zube,
da krik utihne.

Sjenka mi krvari u razuzdanoj šaci.
Ni sjenka mi nije živa...

Nijesi mi ostavio  ni svele grudi 
što hrana su bile, zaloga krvi mojoj, 
štit njedrima  što gradile su.

Zamajce moje otimaš, 
u metu oka ih slamaš
u snagu prekora zidaš.

Kako  bez uzdaha osloboditi otrov 
dok zemljom mi pokrivaš rane.

Uzmeš li mi i suze  luka spasa
će ti more mojih suza biti.

Kada njihova plima krmu o dok slomi, 
oluja uzdaha jedra odnese,
suze zapljusnu vrh jarbola, 
tada ću znati 
da u suzi živiš ti i moj ukradeni život.
 

I wrote this poem in a train coupe in a complete dark on my way back from Niš and The Night of Branko Miljković, where I had won a poetry prize and the Skull Tower Statue. I was happy but emotionally drained. That’s how it is when you love everything that exists, but people don’t believe someone like those lives. Doubt is everywhere, and you give your emotions in vain. I didn’t have a clean paper. I wrote over typed material placing my finger to follow the line spacing. Neither is the poem reworked, nor I feel it needed to be worked on because it just poured out, and every word fell into its place. It’s one of my favorite poems because the pain that left me while writing made me lighter, and I felt healed.

Pjesma nastala u kupeu voza u potpunom mraku vraćajući se iz Niša  sa večeri Branka Miljkovića  kada sam dobila nagradu za poeziju i statuu Ćele kula. Bila sa srećna, ali u duši emotivna praznina.  Tako je to kada sve što postoji voliš, a ljudi ne vjeruju da takav neko postoji. Svuda sumlja i u prazno pružaš svoje emocije. Nijesam imala ni cisti papir . Pisala sam preko kucanog materijala , postavljajući prst kako bih pratila razmak izmedju redova. Pjesma nije doradjivana  niti osjećam da je trebalo na njoj raditi,  jer se jednostavno slila  i  svaka riječ je legla na svoje mjesto. Meni medju draže pjesme jer bol koji je od mene otišao pišući je,  učinio me je lakšom i osjetila sam ozdravljenje.