Roda - The Stork - A poem by Zlatko Tomicic - JCS 21

RODA	THE STORK
Zaklepetala je u očaju Povila je kljun. Krila su joj zalupala, zaokružila je nad krovom, u noći svadbenoj — a bez njega. Mjesec je bio pun. Srebrn je bio put, čistiji od snijega. Čekala Ptica bijela. Došao nije. Dolje lanac zazveči i negdje, dalekio, psi laju. Ona je bdjela. I kružila nad dvorištem u noći srebrnoj.	She clattered in despair bill lowered wings banging, she circled above the roof, on this wedding night — without him. Full moon. The path shone silvery, purer than snow. She waited. The white bird. He didn't come. Below, clinking of chains, dogs barking in the distance. She was wakeful. On this silvery night circling above the yard.
Opustio je krov. Prorijedilo se gnijezdo. Vjetrovi dunuše s ravni i jednu po jednu vlat s ležaja otkinule. Dotle je ptica preko Tanganjika letjela u tuzi za zavičajem. I šesnaest puta obnovilo se gnijezdo. Čekao je log. A on je onu zimu ležao blizu, za kamarom na strnjaku, kuda je pao, noseći tane pijanog lovca. Našla ga nije. Šesnaest puta vukao ju je zakon predja uz zelenu crtu drevnog Nila, krila nosila nad Sudanom i Zambezijom, a ona je, bez utjehe, žudjela za rodnom Slavonijom. I povratkom. Sedemnaesti put ona se vraćala: Bilo je praskozorje. Nije još sunce pozlatilo orah, niti je čordar zatulio po goveda. Doletjela je. Na čadjavoj slami domaćeg dimnjaka opustila je bijela, dugačka krila.	Roof's deserted now. Nest thinned by wind blowing from the plain and carrying off blade by blade from the lair. While the bird flying over Tanganyika pined for the homeland. Sixteen times the nest was renewed. And waiting. He, that winter lay nearby, in the stubble behind a haystack felled by a drunken hunter's bullet. She hadn't found him. Sixteen times, drawn by innate habit she followed the line of ancient Nile wings carrying her over Sudan and Zambezia, not comforted but pining for native Slavonia and her return. Seventeenth time now she's flying back. In early dawn. The sun has not yet hued the walnut with gold, nor has the cattleman's bellow been heard when she flew in. On the home chimney's sooty straw he folded her long white wings. PRPIĆ