I.
Where is this smoke rising from, Alija…
Where from comes this smell of fire?
Is it the relic soil of your country which caught fire
or the invisible flames of our burning cities…
Is it the ashes of Sarajevo being so thrown around?
I have seen that your orphan nations crime was just to
believe,
it was said that you deserve the fierce of this cursed age.
An age called the West, a masked face, a treacherous ambush
a fierce called the West, Oh, its name and fame be ruined…
I have seen it is your belief which frightens this cursed
age
If your country is destroyed, believe that we will be
destroyed
if your country is destroyed, we will drag ourselves along
the ground.
Pity us, pity our country which has lost its eternal sun,
pray for us that black clouds do not keep at us anymore!
If your country is destroyed, believe that we will be
destroyed,
pray for us that our blood flows firstly for the sake of
belief.
Is it the fog of our country which covers the skies, Alija…
Or is it the ashes of Sarajevo being thrown around?
II.
Where is this wail rising from, Alija…
Where from comes this cry, this voice of oppressed ones?
Is it the raped women of your country who are crying
or the echo of screams left from our dirty brains…
Is it the children cut into pieces and thrown around with
the winds?
I have seen it is cruel that we laugh, that we play
I have seen it is difficult to eat, to drink, and to sleep.
The cage of our chests will be tight for all of us I know,
from now on we cannot look at pretty faces of children…
I have seen we cannot look at their innocent eyes
If those children cease to exist, believe that we will cease
to exist
if those children cease to exist, we will fall into deep
holes.
Pity us, pity our country which has lost its eternal soul,
pray for us that we get our beautiful light again.
If those children cease to exist, believe that we will cease
to exist,
pray for us that we fight in sees, and we fight in the
skies.
Is it our fake tears which get upon pilgrim winds, Alija…
Or the children died before playing games are thrown around?
Translated by: A. Edip Yazar
Original Turkish of this poem, “Saraybosna mı yanan biz miyiz Aliya” has
been awarded with the First Prize in the International Turkish Language Bosnia
Poetry Contest in 1994
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