Restlessness
It was a feeling
to whome has not being told everything
of the unknown folds of the soul…
of the downs and twilights
which deceive the Sun too
because it did not write out all thesis
on the memory of life.
And black is now the smell of vanished hugs,
darkened the shelters
over death
that know the steps of wanderers
while crying through the City streets.
Once seemed to me
In the creep of downing
when the trembling dispersed
that something in the hearth was
horribly unfulfilled…
That without sight has been someone who was
crying for blue cloud,
that the hand will never
draw the spring,
that you will never be without
crazy luck
before shifting of the old and the New year.
Meadows and people,
laughter and wine,
things and eyes…
and everything that moves
driven by colder silence
of those that levitate next to stars,
meet and break up in pain…
as spring of unloved.
Slow moves away the funeral
through black distances,
abducted hugs,
of veins that has been teared apart by suffering,
sooty columns of dreams…
In vain the words,
In vain the body flows into dreams and colors.
It will rinse the harthbeats
the first autumn rains…
and to the bottom of our grave
we will not calm down ever more.
Leave
Me
Leave me,
there is a meadow,
whole for the hearth.
I will enjoy my song
I released,
grass will grow high,
the sky under the shoulder –
after perhaps I will come back.
Never ask yourself,
let it only pass,
the time goes down,
the water drain out,
the clouds tear eyes.
So it sometimes the stream comes by,
so come…
I do not know if it is always loneless
rich.
Leave me,
forehead is high,
voice is crushed,
thoughts moved –
space I search,
clear slack…
The hand holds me
lying on the shadows
of the undressed sun,
the look into an emptiness
uninhabited vision…
A time to be silent for a little bit
on the knee…
Leave me
To another fire of dreams,
I will quiet the silence and winking
at the air,
I will come back dead,
but avenged and strong,
in the name of the one who I am not
in the name of the one who is who knows…
Roma,
Where Did You Go
When comes the day of departure
to the storms turned into whisper,
to the landscapes
that will be slimmed down in the line,
Neither happiness nor disappointment
will speak anymore
about tomorrow and about India
where we once upon time went…
Above us watch Gods.
Above ourselves sleep we
as children…
We are more like colorful flowers
than our Indian ancestors…
separates us a great distance,
such as the earth from the sun is far away.
We are wiser than ores,
because we can not get melt by sunny malice
nor by fiery furnaces of crematoriums.
(They) will not pour out of us a shield for other’s defense
but for our suffering.
Centuries now peacefully snoozeing
and on our return to India waiting.
Nevertless, confused by life of nomads,
shambling around the country as in the dark,
breathing next to other people scattered,
we become a different Roma,
in the middle of dreams that never completely dreamed
nor spiritually fulfilled…
To much from other we take
and a little bit we give or they do not take from us.
Longing as a song
In the room of sadness for India which is flatter than the
steppe
eye endless.
We search for the forest wilderness nostalgia,
still not petrified,
search for city cobblestones
still uncovered,
for the homeland that will not fade away and accept us.
Not to cracks us on drying,
the rains wash us away to the bones.
We last, live
and walk in all meridians in the world.
Zlatomir
Jovanovic
Zlatomir
Jovanovic: Class teaching professor. The first teacher of Roma
language in Serbia. He taught in elementary schools “ J.J. Zmaj” and “Ljubomir
Acimovic” in Obrenovac. The director of the radio ‘’Rom” in Obrenovac since
2002.