Her
I first saw her in old photographs —
a woman wrapped in rivers instead of scarves,
her smile faded
like the walls of an empty house where no one sings anymore.
They spoke of her softly,
like a love that never truly left,
but never returned quite the same.
My mother said she brews coffee
with the patience of someone who remembers tears.
My father called her “an old friend,”
as if she raised him
and broke his heart in the same breath.
I began to dream of her.
She smelled like plum and smoke,
walked between mountains like they were folds of her skirt,
and looked at me with eyes
that had known both joy and war.
She didn’t speak much.
Just looked at me,
with the quiet pride of a tired mother
who knows her children love her —
even from afar,
even if they no longer speak her tongue.
Her hair — dark as the river Drina at dusk.
Her voice — a whisper from those old songs,
the ones you only sing
when the guests have gone
and the heart stays awake.
She wore her scars without noise.
In dresses stitched with folk embroidery
she carried wounds no one had tended,
wounds that ripped her in two,
wounds that can be healed by,
only time.
Sometimes I wonder
if she loves me the way I love her,
if she knows I belong to her —
even though I was born
where winters come without the smell of bread and jam
and no one understands.
She is not a city.
Not a mountain.
Not even a song.
Prvi put sam je vidio na starim fotografijama –
žena što rijeke nosi umjesto marame,
osmijeh joj izblijedio,
kao fasada na kući gdje više niko ne pjeva.
Govorili su o njoj tiho,
kao o ljubavi koja nikad nije do kraja otišla,
ali se više ne vraća ista.
Majka je govorila da kahvu pravi
s onom starom strpljivošću što pamti suze.
Otac bi je zvao “moja stara,”
kao da ga je i odgojila i ranila.
Počeo sam sanjati o njoj.
Mirisala je na šljive i dim,
hodala između brda kao da su joj suknje,
i gledala me očima što su znale i sreću i rat.
Nije mnogo pričala.
Samo bi me pogledala,
s onim ponosom umorne majke
što zna da je djeca vole —
čak i kad su daleko,
čak i kad joj jezik više ne govore.
Njena kosa – crna kao Drina u sumrak.
Glas joj – šapat iz derta starih pjesama,
onih što se pjevaju kad svi odu,
a srce ostane budno.
Nosila je ožiljke tiho.
U haljini vezanoj narodnim šarama
krila je rane što niko nije previo,
rane koje su je prepolovile,
rane koje se mogu zacijeliti,
samo vrijeme.
Ponekad se pitam
voli li me kao što ja nju volim,
i zna li da sam njen,
iako sam rođen tamo gdje zime dolaze bez miris hljeba i džema
i gdje niko ne zna šta znači
kad ti neko “pokuca sa srcem”.
Ona nije grad.
Nije brdo.
Nije čak ni pjesma.
Ona je zemlja.
I ja sam njen sin.
I was inspired by sevdalinka (sevdah music), a traditional folklore genre originating in Bosnia and Herzegovina, it is an integral part of Bosniak culture.
The word "Sevdalinka" comes from the Turkish "sevda" which, in turn, derives from the Ottoman Turkish "sevda" and refers to the state of being in love, and more specifically to the intense and forlorn longing associated with love-sickness and unfulfilled and unrequited love.
Today, it is a richly evocative Bosnian word, denoting "to pine" or "to long", whether for a loved one, a place or a time, with a sense of joy and pain, both being at the emotional core of Sevdalinka lyrics.
I was inspired by two songs in particular: Snijeg pade na behar na voće (Snow Fell on the Blossom, on the Fruit) and Emina