Unknown Poet From Yugoslavia

Written by Nurel Javissyarqi
Translated by Agus B. Harianto

When i figured out the work of an anonymous or unrecognized. I found it in the book of “Puisi Dunia” (World Poetry), Volume I, Compiled by M. Taslim Ali, Balai Pustaka, 1952. Because the writing in there Using the old spelling, so I composed with spelling I used for now. Below is a poem of unknown poet derived from Yugoslavia:
(the retranslation into English would be more or less like below).


Di Kordonu di padang bata,
Ibu mencari mayat anaknya.

Demi berjumpa, di atas kubur ia
Tunduk berkata pada anaknya.

O anakku, biji mata ibunda,
Remajamu dulu kemana penyapnya?

Ayahmu menangis, ibu meratap,
Semoga sudi kuburmu menyingkap.

Dan kubur tiba-tiba terbuka,
Si anak bicara dengan bundanya:

Bundaku sayang, hentikan keluh,
beban tangismu berat bagiku.

Lebih berat ratap-tangismu
Daripada tanah hitam itu.

Ibu, pergilah, sudilah pulang.
Jangan kuburku ibu risaukan.

Ibu, sampaikan kepada rakyat
Supaya berjuang agar merdeka.


In Kordonu on the field of brick
A Mother looking for her son’s corpse.

In order to meet, on the grave she
bowed to say to her son.

O my son, my pupil,
Where does your past youth?

Your father was crying, your mother was wailing,
hopefully your grave is disclosed.

And suddenly the tomb is open,
the son talked to her mother:

Dost love, stop complained,
the burden of your crying is heavy to me.

Your wailed crying is heavier
than the black soil.

Mother, please go, please come home.
Do not you worry my grave mother.

Mother, tell to the people
to fight for independence.

The blood of fighting of the unknown poet is really thick. The body and soul is united, word by word reaffirmed the life that became heavy.

Drops of sweat resembles like the metallic twang on the cemetery land. War of the struggle of life, among the flowers of the life of deception.

Bitterness satiated him to be steadfast until the field of brick. The death bodies were fell off, buzzards were feasting. The soul had lost was usual.

Bow down prostrated, living with all thorns was accepted, felt solemnly just as sweet as the charming of watching horizons.

Dusty clothes, torn by shreds of gunpowder and sword. The flesh was broke and spilled out, didn’t have time to stagger. Except for grip of death butted to be fainted.

Unconsciously blanketed by slept without the sound, the shadow of dream. Only his mother’s cry brings back poetry.

Songs of struggling kept to be echoed loudly, even though as if without any changes.

Forging of age was reached to the dreamed estuaries. Not a big name, but his words are echoed in the inner of mankind.

Sacrificed the life to fulfill love that was definitively lost. But to be sure behind the folds of the light period, the light of life is breathing.

An unperturbed to the barrier of the thickness of steel and political intrigues played by the rulers. Kept lunge, because there is no time to wait or even to be relaxing.

Always keep the faith, his patience like the ocean. Shake windjammer of doubts, strong winds dashed did not seem.

Waves of spirit could not be separated since the happening. Incident to him is teacher gives advice, blesses to the tough feet to step.

Fearless but be alert for all the time. That tells to the mother of fate, that his life is happy.

By his sentences capable to motivate the souls of the oppressed countrymen. And tears of eyelids was almost burst.

On the eyes of history witnessed the endless war, unless both were perished.

His story has contents of ballad of the solids of poetry, there is the breath cavity of the readers digest more than explicitly told:

sound, shadow, the motion of feeling, are reflected in the space of between. Distance of the fragment of word dwells mystery, beyond the real of the meeting.

There were boisterous nuzzled nest perched on the branch of the sky. Its condense echoes the ears of firmament, when groaning fused each other in arms.

Clear twang of shrill was further to the rotation of the time of wanderer, to meet the similar fate. Incarnated the destiny of the maturity of heart to take apart for good.

When the blood, sweat, and tears are washed away by the dust of journey. The lightning in the heavy rain shivered guts of the darkness of night.

It leaves trace as deep as the hole of scar on behalf of male horses. Is here where the essence? The blood is torn and spurting to dry.

The first rain makes the field of rebel fertile, purify the heart of warriors. The instinct is carried by the holiness of belief to the future, on the stony feet of dedication.


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