[:sr]KRIK BESNOG PILETA

kako opasno popodne

miris nafte, miris znoja

iz daljine zvuk motora

zvuk

iza prozora su puške

iza pušaka su oči

iza očiju su ruke

iza ruku kuca srce

bejbe ne boj se

ja ću biti tu kraj tebe

bejbe ne boj se

ja ću biti tu kraj tebe

kad bude vrijeme za to….

Šejmeni dolaze….iza pušaka su ruke, iza ruku kuca srce, bejbe!

Tuga!

Uopšte mi nije cilj da ovaj tekst bude politički. Ni najmanje. Možda društveno odgovoran, a ponajpre nešto sasvim lično. Čula sam, videla sam sve i više nego što treba. Ni ne moram. Već mi je sve jasno. Još jedno ludilo. Znam samo da su neki ljudi ubijeni. Zar ne? Ko ih je ubio? Neki drugi ljudi. Možda politika. Možda religija, možda nešto treće, zar je uopšte bitno? Znam samo da dokle god se ljudi „ne probude“, bar ona kritična većinska masa koja će moći da obuči onu preostalu masu, dotle će biti svega toga. Svima je stalo, svima je žao, svi pale sveće. Organizovano. Svi su politički korektni. Poslaće pisma i telegrame ožalošćenim porodicama. Pojaviće se u velikom broju na sahrani. Pružiće svesrdnu podrušku. Ali, znate šta? Sada je kasno. A majci čije je dete ubijeno to mnogo svetla doneti neće. Ni najmanje. Kako li je majci onog deteta koje je uzelo pušku, u čije god ime, i ubilo? Uspavani su, zavedeni, osvojeni i prepušteni. I jedni i drugi. Gde su ovi treći? Ovi što su budni. Cveće i proleće, hare krišna. Let the light shine on. Da li da ih osudjujem? Naravno da ne. Nisu iz istog bunara pili vode. Ni približno istog. Pa, ko je onda kriv? Možda Bog? Da, hajde da sve svalimo na Boga. Kakva idilična obmana i savršen alibi. Za sve je On kriv, sigurno.

Znate ko je kriv? Svi smo krivi. I ja sam kriva. Kriva sam jer ne čistim u sopstvenom dvorištu onoliko koliko bi trebalo. Dva dana čekam da izbacim smeće. Jesam, kriva sam. Kada bi se svako od nas kupao svakog dana, pazio da mu djubre iz usta ne izlazi, manje pravio smeća, isto izbacivao na vreme, manje zverao komšiji u dvorište, bolje birao lidere, manje jurio za novcem, više razumeo sopstvenu decu i stvarao im mirniju budućnost, voleo decu više, možda tada neko izgubljeno dete ne bi sa svojih 20 ili 30 godina dozvolilo sebi da, u čije god ime, uzme pušku u ruke i ubije. Jer, iza pušaka su ruke, a iza ruku kuca srce, bejbe! Ko je brinuo o tom srcu koje je uzelo pušku? Ko? Niko! Dodje mi da vrištim iz sveg glasa, zbog kapitalizma, nepostojeće demokratije, izgubljenog deteta, ludila za novcem. Ludila. Nekad imam utisak kao da svi spavamo i spavamo i spavamo. Kada će već jednom da zazvoni taj budilnik i probudi nas? Jeste, Univerzum-Bog je kriv, sigurna sam. Konstelacije. Konspiracije. Pogrešne afirmacije. Ovaj dogadjaj će opet biti savršen povod nekim drugim uspavanim liderima iz senke da potroše još malo naoružanja kojem je istekao rok, a ne valja da se skladišti posle isteklog mu roka.

I znate zapravo ko je kriv? Krivi smo mi koji smo svesni, ali smo ćutali. Zato što smo lenji i strah nas je da preuzmemo odgovornost za razvoj društva. Sopstvenog dvorišta. Mnogo je lakše sedeti u fotelji i kritikovati. Jeste, lakše je. I onda nas još neko i pohvali kako smo samo pametni i mudri. A kada treba da se bude misionar, da se zasuku rukavi i ode medju običan uspavan svet, da ga se budi i kaže vreme je da ustaneš iz kreveta i vidiš gde si i ko si, onda se i nama radije spava. Lenji smo i uplašeni. Zato odakle nam pravo da se busamo u grudi i ljutimo što nam je država u k…, što je svetski poredak katastrofalan, gotovo anarhičan, loš, što neki tamo religijski fanatici ubijaju ne znajući ni zašto to rade. Ako nas mrzi da budemo misionari, hajde bar decom da se bavimo. Hajde da bar brinemo o srcu svakog deteta i ne dozvolimo da to srce sutra prepozna pušku ili ubistvo kao bilo kakvo rešenje.

Jer, da ponovim, iza pušaka su ruke, a iza ruku kuca srce, bejbe!

[:en]The Cry of an Angry

What a dangerous afternoon
The smell of oil, the smell of sweat
In the distance, the sound of engines
The sound
Behind the window are rifles
Behind the rifles are eyes
Behind eyes are hands
Behind the hands, a heartbeat
Baby, don’t be afraid
I will be beside you
Baby, don’t be afraid
I will be beside you
When the time comes…
Seimeni are coming…behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands, a heartbeat, baby!
Sorrow!

It isn’t my intention for this text to be politically driven. Not in the least. Perhaps socially responsible, but primarily personal. I heard and saw everything, even more than I should have. I don’t need to. Everything is clear to me. More madness. I only know that some people have been killed. Right? Who killed them? Some other people. Maybe politics. Maybe religion, maybe something else, but is it even important? I only know that until people “wake up” – at least the critical majority which will be able to lead the rest – these things will still happen. Everyone cares, everyone is grief-stricken, lighting candles. Organized. Everyone is politically correct. They send letters and telegrams to the bereaved families. They turn up at funerals in large numbers, offering their wholehearted support. But you know what? It’s too late now. This won’t bring light to a mother whose child was killed. Not even a little. And how does the mother of the child that took a gun and killed in the name of whoever? They are drowsy, misled, defeated and abandoned. Both one and the other. Where are the others? The ones who are awake. Flowers and spring, Hare Krishna. Let the light shine on. Should I judge them? Of course not. They didn’t drink water from the same well. Not even close. Then who is to blame? Maybe God? Yes, let’s put the blame on God. What an idyllic delusion and perfect alibi. Surely, He is to blame for everything.
Do you know who is responsible? We all are. I too am to blame. I am guilty because I don’t clean my own garden as often as I should. I leave the garbage for two days before throwing it out. Yes, I am guilty. If each of us washed ourselves every day, took care that garbage doesn’t come out of our moths, made less garbage and threw it out on time, stared less into our neighbour’s garden, chose our leaders more wisely, spent less time chasing after money, understood our own children more and created a more peaceful future for them, loved our children more, maybe then some lost child in their twenties or thirties wouldn’t allow themselves to take a gun and commit murder in anybody’s name. Because, behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands a heartbeat, baby! Who took care of the heart that took the gun? Who? Nobody! It makes me want to scream from the top of my lungs, because of capitalism, a non-existent democracy, a lost child, the madness for money. Madness. Sometimes I am under the impression that we are all sleeping and sleeping and sleeping. When will an alarm ring and wake us? Yes, the Universe – God is guilty, I’m sure. Constellations. Conspiracies. False affirmations. This event will once again be the perfect excuse for some other passive leaders from the shadows to waste a little more ammunition that has passed its sell-by date. Because it’s wrong to keep it after its sell-by date.
Do you know who is truly guilty? Guilty are we who are conscious, but kept quiet. Because we are lazy and scared to take responsibility for the development of society. Our own back gardens. It’s much easier to sit in a chair and criticize. Yes, It’s easier. And then someone comes to praise how smart and wise we are. But when it’s time to be a missionary, to put in some elbow grease and go between ordinary passive masses, to wake them and tell them it’s time to get up out of bed and look at where you are and who you are – then we would rather sleep. We are lazy and afraid. So, where did we get the right to become so full of ourselves and be angry about the fact that our country is f***ed up…, that the world order is catastrophic, almost anarchic, terrible, that some religious fanatics are killing people not even knowing why. If we can’t be bothered to be missionaries, let us at least take care of our children. Let us at least look after the hearts of the children and not allow that heart to someday recognize a rifle or murder as a solution to anything.
Because, I repeat, behind the rifles are hands, behind the hands a heartbeat, baby!

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