Branko Copic - The hero's mother

 In the congress room, quiet as sadness,

The old mother accepts an award:

on the black gown, on the mother's heart,

the Hero smiles on her chest.

And the old hand, the only one in the world,

The warmest hand under the stars, there it goes.

It lowers onto gold, onto the dead son,

To caress him once again.

"Oh my dear son, my joy and sadness,

Both your mother's right and left wing,

are Bosnian mountains hard,

and was it terrifying on Sutjeska?

I know, my child, there had been trouble

Instead of song and laughter, the blares of cannons

instead of a bed, the stone - equal to everybody...

my cup of milk awaits empty.

Oh, our children, oh, courageous cranes,

you've flied away, you've left your little birds,

and while singing a lullaby about your flight,

your mother will raise your baby birds..." 

The old woman holds the award close to her chest,

there burns a heart of the fallen hero,

and it cradles like it did once, when he was still a child,

the first bomber from three hundred battles.

Then the mother, solemnly and secretly,

when the midnight bells rang,

placed the award instead of the icon,

and to her immortal son she bowed.