Asim Bajramović
Bosnian Grandmother
Autumn like autumn, sorrowful and gloomy,
fog had fallen from every side,
and at the city bus station,
an old woman stepped down, a Bosnian grandmother.
Long ago already, time had passed her by,
a scarf on her head, her hair all grey,
she stared into emptiness, holding an umbrella,
clearly weak and visibly pale.
I came closer to her, “How are you, mother?”
and she seemed as though she wished to speak,
“I am ill, my son, from my sorrow,
from my sorrow and from loneliness.”
“I must go to the doctor, but I have no one with me,”
a tear wet her wrinkled face,
“my Meho and Amir remained long ago,
there on the slopes of Srebrenica.”
“At Tuzla’s Kapija, Hajrija remained,
and she was only twenty-two,
oh God, why am I alive as well,
it would have been better had I not been.”
A sigh escaped from her painful chest,
her soul trembled, wounded and old,
with her left hand she wiped away a tear,
and with her right she took a picture from her bosom.
In the picture I saw a boyish face,
and the picture so faded and grey,
she caressed it, speaking to it tenderly,
ah God, the picture seemed to come alive.
Time seemed to stand still,
as though the end had come with this day,
I was no longer aware of anything,
and the picture seemed to speak with the grandmother.
Her lips trembled from heavy sorrow,
yet I still heard the words clearly,
caressing the picture with a trembling hand,
she softly recited the Fatiha.
Then once more she pressed the picture to her chest,
and began to stroke its back side,
within my soul I felt a bitter chill,
and I wept sadly, just like an orphan.
She paused for a moment, then showed me the picture,
“That is my Amir,” she spoke softly,
“Go, mother, and take care of my sister,”
as if I could still hear him when he told me that.
“And my Meho, I still seem to see him,
I will never be able to forget that picture,
‘Go,’ he said, ‘and take care of the little one,
and we too will, God willing, somehow return.’”
“For me, life stopped long ago,
and who knows what tomorrow prepares for me,
every single day I wait for them to come,
I cannot believe that they are gone.”
And I did not even notice when the bus arrived,
all that sorrow folded itself into my heart,
and when I turned and looked aside,
the mother-grandmother was no longer there.
I walked away somewhere, just as if in a dream,
down the rainy, foggy, endless street,
carrying within my heart all the grandmother’s tears,
all the grandmother’s tears and her unbearable sorrow.
Bosnian Grandmother Autumn like autumn, sorrowful and gloomy, fog had fallen from every side, and at the city bus station, an old woman stepped down, a Bosnian grandmother. Long ago already, time had passed her by, a scarf on her head, her hair all grey, she stared into emptiness, holding an umbrella, clearly weak and visibly pale. I came closer to her, “How are you, mother?” and she seemed as though she wished to speak, “I am ill, my son, from my sorrow, from my sorrow and from loneliness.” “I must go to the doctor, but I have no one with me,” a tear wet her wrinkled face, “my Meho and Amir remained long ago, there on the slopes of Srebrenica.” “At Tuzla’s Kapija, Hajrija remained, and she was only twenty-two, oh God, why am I alive as well, it would have been better had I not been.” A sigh escaped from her painful chest, her soul trembled, wounded and old, with her left hand she wiped away a tear, and with her right she took a picture from her bosom. In the picture I saw a boyish face, and the picture so faded and grey, she caressed it, speaking to it tenderly, ah God, the picture seemed to come alive. Time seemed to stand still, as though the end had come with this day, I was no longer aware of anything, and the picture seemed to speak with the grandmother. Her lips trembled from heavy sorrow, yet I still heard the words clearly, caressing the picture with a trembling hand, she softly recited the Fatiha. Then once more she pressed the picture to her chest, and began to stroke its back side, within my soul I felt a bitter chill, and I wept sadly, just like an orphan. She paused for a moment, then showed me the picture, “That is my Amir,” she spoke softly, “Go, mother, and take care of my sister,” as if I could still hear him when he told me that. “And my Meho, I still seem to see him, I will never be able to forget that picture, ‘Go,’ he said, ‘and take care of the little one, and we too will, God willing, somehow return.’” “For me, life stopped long ago, and who knows what tomorrow prepares for me, every single day I wait for them to come, I cannot believe that they are gone.” And I did not even notice when the bus arrived, all that sorrow folded itself into my heart, and when I turned and looked aside, the mother-grandmother was no longer there. I walked away somewhere, just as if in a dream, down the rainy, foggy, endless street, carrying within my heart all the grandmother’s tears, all the grandmother’s tears and her unbearable sorrow.