Bojana Radovanović (Serbia/Austria) is a writer and translator. She is a teacher of French, English and Latin and doing her doctorate in history at University of Vienna. Her poems and short stories have been published in Serbia in various anthologies and magazines. She has translated two books into Serbian language. Presently, she is working on her poetry book. Radovanović lives and works in Vienna.
English
UNDER THE MOONLIGHT (THE MIGRANTS' SONG)
A thought is turning pale under the Moonlight
A decolored scarf in the sea of debris
seeking for a crying face, bathed in rain.
Nobody’s untold words remain
like mud on a shoe
like crow’s feet around the eyes
and wrinkles on the forehead
to rot as an old memory…
Nobody’s people
mute as the language which they do not speak
frozen like fingers in the snow
trapped in a no-man’s land,
between the day and the night,
between the worlds and unuttered words.
IN TWILIGHT
No, not even this one has passed me by and just left me alone, in spite of my recurrent hopes..
As usual, in this hour of the day, that hole in the material I am made of
becomes translucent, and exposes my utterly naked and fragile self,
when the cloth just randomly and carelessly covering it, coloured in some attractive colours, suddenly, in twilight, becomes transparent,
under the setting sun which throws its last light-beams over it, bleaching it..
...Born with a fabric mistake, with a hole in my tissue, like the roof of the shaman's yurt, letting everything fall in, every raindrop, never keeping my head dry...
Translated by the Poet
Serbian
NIČIJI LJUDI
Misao bdi dok bludi pod mesečinom...
Izbledela marama u moru škarta
traži pokislo isplakano lice.
Ničije neizgovorene reči ostaju kao blato na cipelama,
u senkama oko očiju, borama na čelu
da trunu kao sećanje...
Ničija zemlja, ničiji ljudi, ničije reči neme kao jezik
što ga ne govore ovi ljudi prozebli kao prsti pod snegom,
zarobljeni izmedju noći i dana,
između svetova i loših prevoda.
U SUMRAK
Ni ovaj me nije mimoišao, a uvek se iznova ponadam da će baš jedan ovakav to i da uradi, da prođe negde mimo mene i ostavi me na miru. Kao i često u ovo doba dana, ona moja rupa u tkanju kao da mi se nekako proseni i osećam se krhko i golo, kao da tkanina samo nemarno prebačena preko nje i obojena u neke atraktivne boje odjednom, u sumrak, postane prozračna, da li od zalazećeg sunca koje baca svoje nejako svetlo na nju i sasvim je izbledi...
...Rođena sa fabričkom greškom, rupom u tkanju, poput krova šamanskog šatora kroz koji sve prolazi, svaka kap kiše upada unutra i nikad da mi je glava na suvom...