O klasje moje

O klasje moje ispod golih brda,

Moj crni hljebe, krvlju poštrapani,

Ko mi te štedi, ko li mi te brani

Od gladnih tica, moja muko tvrda?

Skoro će žetva... Jedro zrnje zrije...

U suncu trepti moje rodno selo.

No mutni oblak pritiska mi čelo,

I u dno duše grom pada i bije.

Sjutra, kad oštri zablistaju srpi

I snop do snopa kao zlato pane,

Snova će teći krv iz moje rane -

I snova pati, seljače, i trpi...

Svu muku tvoju, napor crnog roba,

Poješće silni pri gozbi i piru...

A tebi samo, kô psu u sindžiru...

Baciće mrve... O, sram i grdoba!...

I niko neće čuti jad ni vapaj -

Niti će ganuti bol pjanu gospodu...

Seljače, goljo, ti si prah na podu,

Tegli i vuci, i u jarmu skapaj!

O klasje moje ispod golih brda,

Moj crni hljebe, krvlju poštrapani,

Ko mi te štedi, ko li mi te brani

Od gladnih tica, moja muko tvrda?!

1910.

Oh my wheat

Oh, you, that lie beneath the bare hills, you my grain,

blood-sprinkled, my painfully-wrought bread.

Could not you be defended, could not you be saved

from hungry birds, my toilsome pain.

Soon there will be harvest.... wheat ripens under the knoll

my village shimmers in the sun,

but ominous cloud hovers over the forehead of mine

and thunder strikes the very deepest of my soul.

Tomorrow, when the sharp sickles are to shine,

and sheaf after sheaf as gold is to be lain,

my wound will bleed again,

and again, suffer peasant, and endure the pain of thine.

All of your slave-efforts put into each single stem

the mighty will feast all pompous and vain

and you, like a dog in the chain,

will be given a crumb... Oh, shame may lay upon them!

And no one will hear misery nor you to cry

nor the drunk party your pain will move,

peasant, miserable thing, dust on the floor, you can never improve,

pull and drag, and in a harness die!

Oh, my wheat beneath the wasteland of the hill after hill,

blood-sprinkled, my painfully-wrought bread.

Could not you be defended, could not you be saved

from hungry birds, my dearest toil.

(Translated by Sonja Stikic)