Smrt Pokolenja

Mi srećni nismo bili.
Nismo oprali na vrelu bratstva oči,
nego smo u groblju, na hladnoj, kamenoj ploči
slušali kako Majka za Sinom cvili.
Iz groblja došli smo čisti,
kroz oblake dima
nadzirao se svetlosti nove luč, ─
i vi nas dočekaste
pletenim, trostrukim bičevima.
I vaše ruke, ko železni obruč
koji guši, guši . . . guši . . . ,
obaviše se oko naših grudi.
Mi smo tada u duši
prokleli i vas i sebe;
i od bola
promenili smo sto idola,
i na sto staza htedosmo stati.
Ali na svakoj po jedna Mati
reče nam da ni mi nismo ljudi.
I tada smo odrekli se svega!
Noć svugde, kao i pre. I tama . . .
Mi izgibosmo pod crnim zastavama,
a vi slavite pompezan pir . . .
Noć svugde,
I tama.
I mir . . .

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GENERATIONS OF DEATH

We were unlucky.
We had not washed the tears of brotherhood from our eyes
instead we fill the cemetery, beneath cold, stone slabs
listening to the wailing of the Mother of the Son.
From the cemetery, we became pure,
through clouds of smoke,
watched over by a ray of light, –
and you welcome us
with the lashings of whips.
And your hands, like iron rings
suffocating, choking…choking…,
grasped around our chests.
We, in our souls,
curse you and ourselves
and from pain
we have become a hundred idols,
wanting to follow a hundred paths.
And one by one, Mother said to each of us,
that we had not even yet become men.
And now we have given up everything!
Night everywhere, like before. And darkness…
We died under black banners,
while you selfishly revel and celebrate…
Night everywhere.
And darkness
And peace…

rough translation Eugene Birman 2014