In July 1998 I wrote – better to say I coughed it out as suffocating, with real physical symptomes - the poem "Srebrenica" (years I add as they pass):
2007 . . .
If I only / Da mi je
Finally / Već jednom
Lay down in that grave / Leć u oni grob
Which is not there / Kojeg nema
Next to child of mine / Kraj dijeta moga
Who's not there / Kojeg nema
To worm up his small hands / Da mu rukice zgrijem.
Poem has gone by Internet to my closer literary and not literary friends (and to some of my literary and nonliterary enemies as well), on its own journey, which did not depend longer on me as its authoress. In B&H this poem did not start living before 2005, when I red it in my English and German language to the foreign ambassadors, while saying: "I wish you not to be comfort by this poem". It seemed to me important to convey it to the others. Who knows, it perhaps is indeed important. If my poem prevents a gram of some possible future hate, or helps a gram to anybody in one's personal grief - here it is for me a reason to keep on writing! Here it is for me a reason to keep on breathing!