Roots Poem by Nastasimir Franovic

Like the oak with lots of knots and tight growth rings.
You can count over years and years.
Here, where the depth of roots is only counted.
A story that has been passed down over the generations.

Can you hear how breathes your country?
The roots grew from the blood spots of your ancestors and got tight into this stone.
Listen, you have a reason and don't ask how much.
Your worldly goods are here.

Your cradle broke into these rocks.
Don't let your dreams be shattered
with sweet-talking and gentlemanly stories.
You are a cragsman son of a rough mountaineer
Here is your soul in these mountain crags.