MIROGOJ

At Zagreb’s cemetery, Mirogoj, the settled

sweet southern soil from my eyes fell away,

at Zagreb graveyard crosses stand, thousands, brittle,

they were all that my eyes retained that day,

those wooden crosses, all so same, so same,

same as the death of soldiers killed in battle.

Arms turned to wood, at the wrists tightly bound,

knew how to drag me off and underground,

I marched along with armies down, afar.

Into graves limed, ‘neath names that time won’t tell

just bodies left, that in the World War fell,

deep, deep, I sank and down into the core,

and every dead man came up close, and pleading

each dead man asked once more:

Do tell me, living,

what did I die here for?

Roots may through blooms yet grasp the sun’s conception,

the fallen, through the living, find out why,

for king, for country, fighting is an option,

but everything’s not cause worthwhile, to die.

Oh Russian, German, Czech and French deceased,

to me your grave and blood bequest now handing,

I pray my grasp may coax new life, released,

so it may blossom into wine and bread,

your question’s grave and far-resounding bell

I will pin in my breast up high, upraised,

by God’s will, with the living, ever raised,

your so live question, – worldwide warfront dead!