Friday, December 1, 2023





I get up lonely, while the still dark plain

is being welcomed by the blinking of wandering stars


this is a moment without events

a moment when nothing can happen

I lit the fire of memories

and now I am adding, multiplying, dividing and subtracting


the plains will soon rise

fire will burn in me

destroying my wrinkled insides


nothing is more sad than to get up alone

while the plains are still dark

nothing is more sad than waiting in vain

and searching memories

nothing hurts and destroys

like the time when you expect nothing


maybe I will in a broken eve

understand why I am doomed

and why I have this undeserved punishment


I get up lonely to the point of pain

while the plains are still dark

and I am perishing like a wounded animal

waiting for my Samaritan girl


Journey To The Last Station


Someone is still playing an old, dilapidated maple guitar

in my alley, from end to end of the world, there are fewer and fewer people

as I sail alone, I am entangled in my thick thoughts by Gibraltar

and I wait patiently for man in man to awaken love


somewhere the nightingales practice their song and paint nights in the blue

while in some circle, I count the remaining days

I pack my bags, I'm happy and in magical loneliness

and I take the last red train before dawn


I will get off at the end of the long journey, at the last stop

without a name, at which no one will wait for me in a daze

at some other end, someone will pray for me in a panic

and sadly, to lay on my pale foot wildflowers


someone will somewhere in a daze, with tears soak footprints of my feet

someone will never remember me for anything

over me, the only poem will watch when the rains soak me

the smell of incense from the not inflamed candle will spread everywhere




To my Mother


Who watches over you

On the long autumn nights

As the storm howls hungrily

And the leaves with the rain carry away


That from your gray hair - mother -

The smells of spring disappear

That from your longing eyes

Autumn rains fall tirelessly


Who invented waking up on cool mornings

That your thoughts cry out in the wind

That your call creeps silently through the darkness

That it silently tears my heart


Whose noises are alienated

That's your heart calls your son

Who invented hunger in the fall

It devours us a distance


Who sits on the lap of frosty autumn mornings

That loneliness settles in your eyes

Why is the ground wet and without a road

Your tears flooded the ground




IBRAHIM HONJO is a Canadian/Bosnian poet-writer, who writes in Bosnian, and English language. He has worked as an economist, journalist, editor, marketing director, and property manager. He is currently retired and resides in Vancouver, BC. Honjo is author 24 published books in Bosnian Language, (7 books in English, 3 books bilingually (in English and Bosnian language). In addition, 4 joints’ books of poems published with Serbian poets. His poems have been represented in more than 60 world anthologies. Some of Honjo’s poems have been translated into Italian, Spanish, Korean, Polish, Slovenian, Bahasa (Malaysia), Mongolian, Turkmen, Turkish, Russian, Bengali, Portuguese, French, Arabic, Tajik, Vietnamese, Chinese, and German.

He received several prizes for his poetry.

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