POETRY

I,

Daughter of Sisyphus,

Of the Idealist

Of the Crazy Revolutionary,

Of the Martyr,

Of the Nuthead,

Of the Great Man,

Who
knew greatness
from when born

in the State,

In the country,

We so hate.

That State
took my father away,

When I was six
months old,

Threw him on the rocks,

Made him carry them
back and forth,

With no purpose

or gain,

Broke all his bones,

Tried to break his spirit,

But he resisted,

A hero and a victim

in that State,

That is no more.

His beautiful wife,

My mother
alone
with me,

Crying, crying endlessly
had to flee

to another city

not to hear
me cry

so desperately,

Because
I was used to being held

in his arms,


Being sung to
with lullaby,

He wrote for me


in that house that is no more.

She returned
after three days,

And became
mother,

And father
to me.

And this is how
my life began

in that land,

That is no more,

In that State
we so love,

And we so

hate.

___________

*For the crime of cheating death, Sisyphus must push his boulder up the mountain only to have it roll back down each day. This poem is dedicated to all victims of Tito’s regime who were sent to Goli otok (Naked Island) on the Adriatic in ex-Yugoslavia to endure years of hard labor 1948-1954 for the crimes of free thought.

….

(Self-translation from SERBIAN)

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