I once wrote a song about freedom. And I buried her deep below the threshold of the parents’ house.
Some neighbors saw it and they called me a witch, possessed by a demon. When everything was being killed and demolished, they fled under the frame of mine blue door and they begged me to summon all my spirits.
I put the paper down on the nearest palm, and it just said:
Freedom sometimes lies more peacefully underground, because it prefers free deaths to fears and sad human sighs.
2. Papaver Rhoeas
We are terribly alone. And that is easily tolerated.
Poppy fields. Flowers break their necks under the blue cover, their magnificent heads bleed. The rustling of the aspen is almost eerily soothing... I guess that's how it happens before death. The wind carries the voices of our mothers instead of pollen;
Don't touch those red flowers, your skin will dry out, you can die!
We stayed away from poppies, throughout our childhood and growing up, we deftly avoided death, for safety; we chose white meadows, picked daisies, we wore white linen, for peace - white flags would flutter in our hands for a short time and we would lower them to the ground.
Sometimes we would meet and on light fabrics we would see each other's wounds, confused, because we did not enter wild fields. And it hurt. And it hurts.
Our mothers did not know, and our graves know; that red petals reduce pain, so, secretly, we rub them deep into the wounds, and that the syrup from their blossoms helps children to sleep peacefully, that's why we constantly drink it from onyx glasses.
And we don't ask who, we don't ask where, we won't get anywhere if we don't go ourselves There(?) We lie in the ground, it will hurt less everywhere than here.
1. Hamajlija
Nekoć sam napisala pjesmu o slobodi i zakopala je duboko ispod praga roditeljske kuće.
Neki susjedi to vidješei prozvaše me čarobnicom, koju je opsjeo demon.
Kada se sve ubijalo i rušilo, bježali su pod ram mojih plavih vrata i molili da dozovem sve svoje duhove.
Spustila sam papir na najbliži dlan, a na njemu je samo pisalo:
Sloboda nekad radije leži pod zemljom, jer draža su joj slobodna umiranja negoli strahovi i tužni ljudski uzdisaji.
2. Papaver Rhoeas
Strahovito smo sami. I to je podnošljivo.
Polja makova. Cvjetovi lome vratove pod plavetnim pokrovom, krvare njihove veličanstvene glave. Šuštanje jasika je skoro pa sablasno umirujuće… Valjda tako biva pred smrt. Vjetar umjesto polena nanosi glasove naših majki;
Ne dirajte ono crveno cvijeće, koža će vam se osuti, možete umrijeti!
Klonili smo se makova, cijelo djetinjstvo i odrastanje, Vješto smo izbjegavali smrt, Zbog sigurnosti; Birali smo bijele poljane, Brali tratinčice, Nosili smo bijeli lan, Zbog mira – U našim rukama samo bi kratko zavijorile bijele zastave koje bismo spuštali na tle.
Ponekad bi se sretali I na svijetlim tkaninama Ugledali jedni druge tamnocrvene mrlje, zbunjeni, Jer u samonikle poljane nismo zalazili. A boljelo je. Ja boli.
Naše majke nisu znale, A naši grobovi znaju; Da crvene latice umanjuju bol, Pa ih, kriomice, utrljavamo duboko u rane, I da sirup od njihovih cvatova pomaže djeci da mirno spavaju, zato ga neprestano ispijamo iz čaše od oniksa.
I ne pitamo tko, Ne pitamo gdje, Nećemo stići nigdje Ako sami ne pođemo Tamo(?) Liježemo u zemlju, Svuda će manje da Boli.
Azemina Krehić was born on October 14., 1992. in Metković, Republic of Croatia. Winner of several international awards for poetry, including: Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019, Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020, Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021, Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022. She graduated from law school, now she is studying Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian language and literature at the Faculty of Philosophy in Zenica.