The Undefeated Croatian Spirit |
I am the Croatian spirit |
I have arrived with my power |
From across many foreign lands |
To be with you |
To be present in your lives |
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I will live through you |
When you sing together |
And as you listen |
My melody must resound in you |
And in harmony with others |
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I will live through you |
When you read |
My ancient prose |
To feel the presence of its author |
The room is filled with emotion |
When you hear my words aloud |
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I will live through you |
From generation to generation |
When you dance to my music |
When you know my culture |
And how it feels to make it your own |
You capture my strength |
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I am the Croatian spirit |
I am with you |
When you hold my flag high |
In every city far and wide |
It’s not enough to 'have' my flag |
But not walk behind it proudly |
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For I am not just any spirit |
I am the Croatian spirit |
Born over 4000 years ago |
And although my homeland |
Has been plundered and occupied |
And my people |
Have been slaughtered and enslaved |
I have survived |
Through my Croatian language and song |
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I am alive in you now |
And in your children |
If you open your hearts to me |
You will achieve great heights |
For when you join together I am with you |
And I will not be broken! |
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Jean Lunt Marinovic, 1985 |
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Prayer for a Just Peace |
Recited at "48 Hours Peace Vigil - - Festival for Peace |
at St. Paul's Cathedral, Melbourne December 1986 |
Dear World, International Year of Peace, |
I offer you a forgotten people, the Croats. |
They committed a sin, |
By defending their nation, |
By defending their history, |
By defending their brothers, |
They fought, alone. |
Alone, they died. They lost the war, |
And in hope, they surrendered. |
But they were betrayed. Betrayed, |
By the allies, by the axis, |
By their own people, |
By the whole world. |
They were murdered, and they fell, |
One by one, half a million times, |
Never buried. |
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The world turned its back. |
A new generation grew up, after the war. |
They wept, |
Until no more tears would come. |
They spoke out, |
But no one listened. |
They were murdered, alone. |
No one talks about those skeletons, |
Who haunt the cupboards of the world today. |
No one talks about those skeletons |
Except for a few, |
A few, who are stalked, by secret police, |
A few, who suffer, alone. |
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International Year of Peace, |
Yes, for the 'free' world. |
Yes, for other oppressed peoples. |
Yes, they have 'all' been remembered, |
In their power, or, |
In their oppressed state. |
In their hunger, and in their dreams. |
And all the while, Croats – ignored, |
Are extradited, lured, exiled, |
Murdered, tortured, slandered, |
Slaughtered, |
Sold into slavery, stripped of their pride. |
Alone, they look to each other. |
And alone, they do not forget. |
They alone suffer, they hurt, |
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While the whole world watches, |
And laughs, and condemns her. |
For Croatia lost her innocence, |
She is human, her soil breathes, |
Her people weep, their open wounds bleed, |
The salt stings them. |
Yet, somehow they survive, bread, grass, |
Potatoes, on cornmeal, they live. |
In darkness, they die, buried, |
Without their loved ones. |
Yet they survive, their faith is undaunted. |
They know, one day |
One day – God will remember. |
One day, God will cast out |
Those who have tortured her soul |
Those who have sold her people |
To the highest bidder, forgotten, |
With no name. |
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White dove, fly, do not forget, |
Croats leave this Year of Peace |
With a prayer, with their souls exposed. |
Not pitied, but 'persecuted'. |
Persecuted for the crimes of others, |
Persecuted for living on their Croatian soil. |
Such a beautiful place, |
So beautiful for tourists who eat their food |
And leave, they leave Croats hungry, |
And pay their oppressors. |
So beautiful, they bare their bodies |
To her sun, and to Croatian children. |
And her children hold their heads up |
And with innocent hope |
Ask the International Year of Peace |
To remember them, |
To remember their nation. |
They ask the world |
Which rejoices in its righteousness |
To consider how the poor |
Sacrificial Lamb felt, to remember how |
The living earth and small insects |
And plants felt |
With the onslaught of progress |
And world peace. |
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Jean Lunt Marinovic, 1986 |
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