The Time That Will Never Return

The Time That Will Never Return

In foreign lands the years pass by,
life keeps counting all its days,
yet sometimes everything falls silent,
and I remember my early youth.

Here too the sky is blue above,
and endless stars fill up the night,
but nowhere shines with such a beauty
as the sky above my Bosnia.

Perhaps the eyes deceive the soul,
for every sky is much the same,
above Bosnia or elsewhere —
yet hers feels pure, like Paradise.

Perhaps my soul longs for Bosnia,
and paints illusions in my eyes,
or maybe all of this is truth —
or who can know… what truly is?

So many times in lonely silence,
led by love beyond all bounds,
it seems I see a little village,
an old worn house where I was born.

A tiny village in the hills,
and hills that climb into the clouds,
my soul reaches — my hands are searching
to touch them once, to hold them close.

A little house beside the village,
its corners wrapped in gentle shade,
a lantern glowing in the center,
yet happiness poured from its walls.

It feels as though I see the hearth again,
soft smoke drifting through the house,
grandfather tending to the fire,
telling stories to us all.

The chains above the fire sway slowly
through the dim and dancing light,
and it seems they pause completely
every time grandfather speaks.

Grandfather speaks of days long faded,
then lights tobacco on the flint,
remembering those distant years
when he himself was just a child.

Father would come home from the woods,
while mother prepared the evening meal,
the house was filled with warmth and joy —
there was no room at all for sorrow.

Beside the hearth a pot of milk,
freshly boiled, still warm with steam,
and homemade bread beneath the sač,
its fragrance filling every room.

Then mother sets the low round table,
all of us gather close around,
and with her gentle loving hands
she brings warm cups of milk to each.

So joyful as together sitting,
holding pieces of warm bread,
it was little — yet enough;
our souls were full, our hearts content.

That night we dined all there together,
grandfather lit his pipe again,
and mother softly asked us all:
“Does anyone still need something?”

Then father started telling stories,
laughing warmly as he spoke,
while outside winter tightened fiercely
shortly after afternoon prayer.

He spoke of all that happened that day,
then suddenly would fall silent,
rubbing tired and weary hands,
rough and hardened by hard labor.

Night descended, all grew quiet,
grandfather asked for water then,
made ablution, softly praying
the evening prayer before sleep.

And we children gathered closely
beneath old quilts still full of warmth,
then mother came to every bedside,
whispering softly: “Sleep now, son.”

Carefree days kept slowly flowing,
beautiful dreams faded away,
yet even now I almost hear her
calling me again her son.

Mother left this world long ago,
fate remains unknown to souls,
then father passed — and everything crumbled
like a castle made of cards.

The children scattered far from home,
each one chasing life alone,
and from that house once warm with love
not even its foundation remains.

I know there’s no one living there now,
no traveler ever stops again,
yet inside my heart still lives
the longing of my soul to return.

To see once more my beloved hills,
where my childhood home once stood,
it seems to me warm bread still carries
its fragrance through those distant rooms.

And mother’s voice, it seems, still calls me
from somewhere far beyond the years,
while cherished memories keep stirring
all the dreams within my heart.

So give me sevdah, give me music,
let the mournful song be heard,
let it bring back to my spirit
days when my soul still knew true joy.

So give me sevdah, give me music,
for nothing else remains to me,
except the scent of warm fresh bread
just lifted from the open hearth.

And let me fall asleep in dreams,
in dreams still filled with happiness,
let my soul forever wander
through the time that will never return.