From the village we arrived
At Bloor and Margaretta.
There we met each other
And lived ten by ten together.
We formed a little colony,
A migrant nest abroad.
Families came one by one—
With elders and with little children.
The colony kept filling,
Margaretta overflowed.
Our village emptied slowly
As people left ten by ten.
Families grew larger,
And there was no room for us all.
The sorrows of the village softened
When we managed to earn a little money.
And like the ants
That suddenly grow wings,
We flew away one by one
To build our own nests.
The wind scattered us
To the east and to the west,
And each of us succeeded
In having a home of our own.
The years were good to us—
With weddings, feasts, and celebrations,
With many festivals
And gifts of shining gold.
We saved a little money
Running to our daily work.
Yet the celebrations continued
As our children grew.
Now the children have flown,
They built nests of their own.
They settled their own households
And moved even farther away.
Our strength has softened,
The showing-off has ended.
Reality is drawing near—
Its signs have now begun.
Rheumatism troubles us
When we lie down to sleep,
And already we struggle
To climb the stairs.
We rejoice in our grandchildren.
They are our medicine.
Though our bones may ache,
We hold them in our arms.
We no longer hold many feasts—
Nor dances nor festivals.
More often we gather
At funerals now.
The migrant nest grows smaller.
And there, bowed and humble,
We reflect upon our whole life,
Seeing an equality in the end—
For this is the true reality.
Sklithro-Zelenich-Sebalći 