Asim Bajramović
All my counted summers, like the drops of rain,
Filled my weary spirit with a lifetime’s pain.
Wrinkles weave their web upon this face of mine,
Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide.
I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say,
I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace.
For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild,
Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child.
Heavy days behind me linger like the shade,
Like the rows of meadow grass so long ago were mowed.
Life has been a battle where the spears collide,
Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide.
I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say,
I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace.
For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild,
Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child.
Life is not the music old tambura players make,
Nor tavern tables crowded with empty glasses drained.
Life is not the money that can bring lost dreams alive,
Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide.
I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say,
I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace.
For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild,
Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child.
All my counted summers, like the drops of rain, Filled my weary spirit with a lifetime’s pain. Wrinkles weave their web upon this face of mine, Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide. I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say, I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace. For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild, Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child. Heavy days behind me linger like the shade, Like the rows of meadow grass so long ago were mowed. Life has been a battle where the spears collide, Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide. I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say, I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace. For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild, Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child. Life is not the music old tambura players make, Nor tavern tables crowded with empty glasses drained. Life is not the money that can bring lost dreams alive, Still I long for Bosnia in this world so wide. I will return, Bosnia—these words I have to say, I will return, Bosnia, to rest in your embrace. For your loving arms, my Bosnia, dear and mild, Are like the arms of the mother who gave life to her child.