PALESTINI – TO PALESTINE


Slušala sam kako se zadnja grančica u mojoj duši lomi,
zadnja kap krvi kako se suši, dok sam sve to gledala.
Jedan je čovjek udarao jednu iznemoglu staricu na polovini puta,
udarao je sa čeličnim štapom
među stotinama ljudi koji su prolazili,
prolazili i bacali pogled na taj prizor.
Neki su bacali zastrašujući pogled, neki pak iznenađeni,
neki pun sažaljenja, dok neki miran i osoran.
Udarao ju je ovaj čovjek sve jače, zlobnije, silnije…
Starica je krvarila, rane su bile sve veće,
borila se je za život sa svojom zadnjom kapi,
zadnjom snagom koja nije imala u planu da se povuče sa bojnog polja.
Negdje u brujanju ljudi čudoh pravu priču.
Starica se zvaše Palestina,
a taj bezdušni čovjek Izrael.
One njene slabašne ruke koje su se hrabro borile,
imale su istu oštrinu zamaha kao ono veliko i malo kamenje
sa kojim se ti ljudi sa istom hrabrošću bore.
I baš sam u njenim očima mogla vidjeti istu bol,
ali i isti znak-odustajanje ne postoji u mome jeziku!
Te njene oči bijaše kao ta zemlja,
kao ta izmorena zemlja koja nikada ne prestaje da se borima koliko udaraca primila,
ma koliko jaki i zlobni ti udarci bili.
Rekla bih, ma koliko kukavični ti udarci bili.
Jedan čovjek sa čeličnim štapom (izraelske puške, tenkovi) protiv starice?!
Zapitajmo se realno, kolike su šanse ove starice?
Znam, nisu nimalo velike…
Ali ako svi ovi ljudi što gledaju, što kažu da im je stalo,
kada bi samo oni bili jaki kao što su na riječima,
kada bi oni samo rekli:”STOP! Dosta je više!
Te staričine rane su i moje rane!”
Kada bi samo svi zajedno narsnuli na ovog čovjeka.
Razmislite sada, kolike bi bile staričine šanse?
Ko smo mi?
Šta smo mi?
Možda ne znam odgovor na ova dva pitanja,
ali sigurno znam da nismo spušteni na ovu zemlju da sijemo nered,
da prljamo ruke krvima nevinih duša.
Uzimanje duša je samo Božije djelo, ničije više!
Gospodaru moj, molim Te, neka moje dove obgrle taj nevini narod,
uslišaj Svevišnji poziv svih tih umornih glasića na tom tlu
koji nemaju druge želje nego da slobodno kroče SVOJOM zemljom.
Amin!
English translate:
I was listening to the last twig breaking in my soul,
to the last drop of blood drying, while I was watching it all.
One man was punching one bedridden, old woman on a halfway,
struck her with a steel rod
among the hundreds of people who were passing,
passing and glancing at the scene.
Some of them were threwing frightening look, some surprised,
some pity, some quiet and curt.
This man hit her always stronger, sinister, more mightily…
The old woman was bleeding, her wounds were bigger,
she fought for her life with her last drop of blood
with her last srength which never planned to withdraw from the battlefield.
Somewhere in the sound of people I heared a real story.
The old women’s name was Palestine,
and the name of the heartless man was Israel.
Those her spindly arms which fought bravely
had the same sharpness of the momentum like those big and small stones
with which these people are struggling with the same courage.
I really could see in her eyes the same pain,
and the same sign-abandonment does not exist in my language!
And those her eyes were like that country,
like that exhausted country that never stops to struggle no metter how much hits it receives,
no matter how strong and vicious these hits are.
I would say, no metter how cowardice these hits are.
One man with a steel rod (Israeli guns, tanks) against one old women?
Let us ask ourselves realistically, how big are the chances of the old women?
I know, they are not really big…
But if all these people who are watching, who are saying that they care about it,
if they were only strong like they are on their words,
if they would only say: “STOP! It’s enaugh!
The old woman’s wounds are my wounds too! “
If they all together only swoop on this man.
Let us think now, how big would be the old woman’s chances?
Who are we?
What are we?
Maybe I do not know the answer on these two questions,
But I know for sure that we were not put here on this earth to sow disorder,
to get our hands dirty with the blood of innocent souls.
Taking the soul is only act of God, no one else’s!
My Lord, please, let my prayers embrace that innocent people,
Hear the Almighty a calls of all these tired voices on its soil
which have no other wish but to freely walk on THEIR land.
Ameen!
Autor: Lejla Turkeš
Author: Lejla Turkeš

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