Three Serbs are sitting in my chest
knocking on the walls.
I suck in every bit of ash
from the cigarette smoke.
Every hour the blood clots
in my head, then
thins and moves on,
this is how
everything repeats.
Who pulls the life from us
with two outstretched hands?
You carve dry flesh from my bones,
the wind passes through my ribs,
and if there is any light
left inside you,
force it out of your throat,
vomit before the others.
The town is a giant whale,
terror trembling in its chest,
because
the ocean is too far,
the sea is too far,
and you also are too far
from me,
the ground covers over.
And I lay here for nothing
on this same earth
on the other side of it,
I can’t drain you
from the stomach
of any whale.
Your hand squeezes
the blood from my throat,
and you comfort me:
the earth with drink it
anyways.
I wait for the train,
and I’ll arrive tonight
for nothing, you won’t come,
tomorrow they’ll close
the station behind me,
for a month
Keleti will stay silent,
the terror
will also tremble
in the chest
of the one
who awaits
the touch
of the same hand.
The mind is held against the skull’s wall
and they fire until the people run into bullets.
Later they must chop down the whole forest
they need so many coffins.
i’ll throw you down stand up i’ll throw you back down
now run stand up i’ll throw you back down
stand up tear out your roots stand up
stand up run i’ll throw you back down
to the ground anyways.
Subotica disappears, its flames enormous.
I watch from afar,
stagger while the horizon sways.
I trip
and in my head echoes:
the earth will drink
it up anyways.
In thick fog
What seed of hell
is this black earth?
I searched for you, called out to you,
I crawled into your palm, Lord.
You closed it.
And I crack,
like a trapped spine.
Your absence settles into me,
it snaps the bones in my shoulders, one by one.
Something is broken in here,
I didn’t find the way,
and the blood pours
from my mouth.
Гусга ми магла паднала море,
Гусга ми магла паднала.
На тој ми рамно Косово море,
на тој ми рамно Косово!1
I stand without you in the desert, Lord.
The villages are burning in the valley,
but you aren’t anywhere.
Heads and legs are smoldering,
and in the smoke, I search
for only you,
but see nothing,
my eyes wet,
my chest wet,
every tear
slipping off me.
Ништа се живо не види море,
ништа се живо не види.
До једно дрво високо море,
до једно дрво високо.2
I set fire to every village,
but you still won’t show yourself.
I draw red lines
dragging the cooling bodies,
but you still won’t move.
I stand on dry rock,
and see nothing.
I lie among white trees,
try to shed
my skin,
so that I will be raw flesh
before you, and the sun.
I don’t know which road
I took this far from home,
and where I should go
tomorrow.
Под њег` ми седив терзије море,
под њег` ми седив терзије.
Они ми шијев јелече море,
они ми шијев јелече.3
I whispered your name,
you soaked me with blood.
Slowly,
you sewed into my shirt
all the names of the people
whose necks I stood on.
I lie among white trees,
the spring pulls away my skin.
I am raw flesh before you, Lord,
could you cover me
with your two great hands?
Колко су дзвезде на небо море,
колко су дзвезде на небо.
Толко су шарке на њега море,
толко су шарке на њега.4
Something is broken in here,
I didn’t find the way,
the earth crumbles under me
1 A thick fog has fallen on me,
A thick fog has fallen on me,
Over the plains of Kosovo,
Over the plains of Kosovo!
2 There is nothing alive I see,
There is nothing alive.
I see only a single tree,
I see only a single tree.
3 The tailors are sewing under that tree,
The tailors are sewing a vest for me,
And they weave into my vest,
as many colors as the stars.
4 As many stars in the sky,
As many stars in the sky,
Are the colors in the vest,
Are the colors in the vest.
Anna Terék was born in 1984 in Bačka Topola, former Yugoslavia. In addition to her drama compilations, Anna has published four collections of poetry, including Danube Street (Duna utca), Dead Women (Hallott nök), and Back on the Sun (Háttal a napnak), which was awarded the Milán Füst Prize in 2020. She currently resides in Budapest.
Kristen Herbert is a writer and translator originally from the Chicago area. Her translations of contemporary Hungarian literature have been published in Waxwing, Newfound, Asymptote, and Columbia Journal Online, as well as Hungarian Literature Online, where she briefly worked as an editor. She is currently an MFA candidate in fiction at the University of California-Riverside.