#442003

Anonymous

I see you’re all posting poems from WWII period, so here’s Krvava bajka (the bloody fairy tale). A poem by Desanka Maksimović about Kragujevac massacre in which Nazis and collaborators executed  ~3000 (right after the war records said 7000) men and boys of Kragujevac.

Krvava bajka

Bilo je to u nekoj zemlji seljaka
na brdovitom Balkanu,
umrla je mučeničkom smrću
četa đaka
u jednom danu.
 
Iste su godine
svi bili rođeni,
isto su im tekli školski dani,
na iste svečanosti
zajedno su vođeni,
od istih bolesti svi pelcovani,
i svi umrli u istom danu.
 
Bilo je to u nekoj zemlji seljaka
na brdovitom Balkanu,
umrla je mučeničkom smrću
četa đaka
u jednom danu.
 
A pedeset i pet minuti
pre smrtnog trena
sedela je u đačkoj klupi
četa malena
i iste zadatke teške
rešavala: koliko može
putnik ako ide peške…
i tako redom.

 

Misli su im bile pune
istih brojki
i po sveskama u školskoj torbi
besmislenih ležalo bezbroj
petica i dvojki.
Pregršt istih snova
i istih tajni
rodoljubivih i ljubavnih
stiskali su u dnu džepova.
I činilo se svakom
da će dugo,
da će vrlo dugo
trčati ispod svoda plava
dok sve zadatke na svetu
ne posvršava.
 
Bilo je to u nekoj zemlji seljaka
na brdovitom Balkanu,
umrla je junačkom smrću
četa đaka
u istom danu.
 
Dečaka redovi celi
uzeli se za ruke
i sa školskog zadnjeg časa
na streljanje pošli mirno
kao da smrt nije ništa.
Drugova redovi celi
istog časa se uzneli
do večnog boravišta.

here’s English translation, first one I found

The Bloody Fairy Tale

It happened in a land of farmers on
hilly Balkan 
far, far away; 
a troop of students 
died martyred 
on one single day. 

They were all born 
in the same year.
For all of them, the school days were the same: 
They were all taken 
to the same festivals with cheer, 
they were all vaccinated 
until the last name, 
and they all died on the same day. 

It happened in a land of farmers on 
hilly Balkan 
far, far away; 
a troop of students 
died martyred 
in one single day. 

And only fifty-five minutes 
prior the death moment, 
a small troop of fidgets 
sat beside their school desks 
solving the same hard math quest: 
“If a traveler goes by foot, 
how much time he needs to rest…”
and so on. 

Their thoughts were filled 
with same figures and tags 
and there was a countless amount 
of senseless As and Fs 
in their notebooks and in their bags.
They were squeezing 
a whole bunch of secrets that mattered–
either patriotic or a love letter– 
on the bottom of their pockets. 
And everyone of them supposed 
that he would for a long time, 
for a very, very long time 
run under the blue sky– 
until all math quests on the world 
were done and gone by.

It happened in a land of farmers on 
hilly Balkan 
far, far away; 
a troop of students 
died martyred 
on the same day. 

Whole rows of boys 
took each other’s hands 
and leaving the last school class 
went to the execution quietly, 
as the death was nothing but a smile.
All friends in rows were, 
at the same moment, 
lifted up to the eternal domicile.

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