BALKAN BLUES OR A LABOURER’S REVENGE

Set fire to them, please, Lord, let them burn up in the fire of their sins. Burn them!

Beat them to a pulp, oh kindest God, by your heavenly rolling-pin, scorch with thunder for good their mighty, baleful hopes.

Hit ’em, Lord, I beg you, with whatever and however you can: with plague or famine, a flood, a lightning strike, or perhaps a smack of wind (with your beautiful, Shaman song), so that it seems like they’d never been among us.

And, c’mon, willya, as loud as you can — shout from up above, from the top of the Balkan mountains: so their underwear will tremble, so their brats’ asses will stink up, so they hear already who’s Boss in this valley while they lunge at us like rabid dogs, while they assault, while they bite, while they demolish, while they obliterate, while they sunder and raze, while they beat us to the ground. While they crush and stomp, while they burn

(while they burn and blaze) upon Adam’s Banished

And when you tire, don’t worry! Sit down! Relax! We, Yours, that like Your image and form are, we will gladly finish them off, with Your mercy, Dear, to the black earth we will expertly run them down.

Translated by Ulvija Tanović

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