Možda niko nije umeo da te želi ovako
kao ja noćas.

Tvoje ruke bele kao samoća.
Tvoja bedra sa ukusom platna i voća.
Tvoj malo šuštavi glas.

Sa nosom dečački prilepljenim
uz okno vagona,

nejasan samom sebi
kao oproštajno pismo padavičara

i čudno uznemiren toplinom
kao razmažen pas,

putujem, evo, putujem,
da natrpam u glavu još neslućene predele,
da drveću poželim najlepšu noć
na svetu,

da se vrtim kao lišće,
kao vetar po travnjacima,
kao zvezde i ptice.

Da malo nemam plan.

Da imitiram klavijature,
liftove
i okean.

Da zaboravim ruku na tvom struku.
I lice uz tvoje lice.

Morao sam da izmislim da si nešto sasvim,
sasvim trajno.
Drukčije ne bih izdržao
okovan u ova usijana rebra.

Uobrazio sam da sam te već viđao
u lađarskim lengerima,
u naočarima starih prodavaca lozova
i zarđalim očima limenih bogova
na seoskom raspeću.

Veče je opet nekako sumanuto sjajno,
i daljine pod mokrim zvezdama
pune su mleka
i srebra.

Morao sam da izmislim da si nešto sasvim,
sasvim beskrajno,
u ovim batrgavim noćima
što imitiraju sreću.

A o meni i ne pitaj.
Ko sam ja?
Niko.
Trava.

Kunem ti se u sve one osvetljene prozore
kojima sam zavideo na zavesama
kad sam služio u mornarici.

Ja sam rodjendan slona
i smrt mrava
na istoj slamarici.

Zaista,
ti mene tako divno ne znaš.

Hiljadu prašuma češlja kosu
u mom ušećerenom oku.

Sanjam te s tugom noćima,
kao vojnik tuđu pornografsku sliku,

U meni stanuju kapele
i noćni lokali
i neki podivljali konji
preživeli u nekom ogromnom pokolju.

U meni se dave brodolomnici
i kopna na vidiku.

Tebi ću priznati:
ja, preispoljna kukavica,
umeo sam da bivam zapanjujuće hrabar
zbog regrutskih ogledala, zbog kojih mnogi
nikada neće postati invalidi.

Pisao sam stihove da bude malo snošljivije
u muškim čekaonicama kožnih dispanzera.

Razumeo sam kako je uškopljenim bivolima,
a sa rudarima sam imao običaj
da zlonamerno ćaskam
u oblacima i okeanima.

Bio sam sve ono što bridi
i što se stidi.
Sve ono što se vidi i ne vidi u noćima.
Sve ono što se kazuje i ne pokazuje u danima.

Ja sam taj što je molio
da se izmisli takva država
u kojoj vladaju kondukteri.

Jedna država u kojoj svako može da putuje
kud god hoće.

Ja sam taj što je sklapao ruke
da se izmisli jedna odlična država
koja sanjarima od malih nogu daje penziju
i školsku decu masovno vakciniše
protiv samoće.

Sad više ništa nemam,
samo ovo srce,
ogromno,
gadno
i gladno.

Ovaj rezervat divljih bubnjeva
i hipnotisani zoološki vrt.

Pokazaću ti nilske konje moje tuge.
Zebre moje neozbiljnosti.
I majmune pijanstva.

Pokazaću ti ovo u meni
što liči na opljačkanu kockarnicu
i opljačkanu smrt.

Svi nekud odlaze.
Eno, pogledaj ih gde odlaze
kao pihtijasti zvuk zvona.

Danima nekud odlaze kao miris izmirne,
nečujni,
i na prstima.

U očima im malo glinenih perli,
i vašarskih bombona,
i malo iskrzane slame u ustima.

Niko te zaista nije želeo
ovako stravično, kao ja noćas.

Tebe sa mirisom sapuna,
mastila,
mirisom đačkih igranki,
pokislih revera,
magle
i tramvajske zvonjave.

U mojim žilama za tebe teče
nekakva bela krv,
nešto kao čipka na tvom ramenu,
ili ukus tvojih sekutića u mojim dlanovima.

Nešto kao poljubac
između dve nečitke izgužvane stranice
nekakvog na brzinu napisanog pisma.

Ili nešto kao krv pod noktima
između dve najšarenije ponjave.

A o kiši ti nisam ni rekao:
sve mi je usne ulubila.

Malo me ljubila.
Malo ubila.

Raskoračen nad sobom,
danima sam zverao u svoju zapenjenu zenicu
kao u namirisanu kadu.

Pod kožom mi stanovala vretena.

Pod temenom mi plastovi blata
zaudarali na četiri rata.

Možeš misliti kako je bilo
kad uopšte i nisam imao brata
u tom gradu
gde su svake večeri ponovo hteli
glavu da mi ukradu.

Imao sam samo bezbroj suludih koraka
od zida
do zida.

I natrag:
od zida
do zida.

Imao sam malo tuđeg smeha i plača
nataloženog na stvari.

I onu jesen,
onu najlepšu jesen na svetu,
onu što miriše na kišu, kao Ciganka
kad žute haljine skida
i među krošnjama krvari.

Vidiš kako ti mene divno ne znaš.
Možda ja nisam ni trava.
Možda sam samo napamet naučio trčanje
od porodilišta do spomenika
u nekoj panonskoj varoši
austrougarskog porekla.

U meni jedno nebo,
obešeno za noge,
visi kao da spava,
a to je jedino nebo koje ne ume da spava.

U meni jedno nebo visi kao zastava
od vetra strašno otekla.

Voz tutnji.
Tutnji.

Učini nešto da me bar tvoj grad
ne sretne
sa topovima samoće
ispaljenim u ova usta živa.

Nadrobi mi u grlo ptičja krila
pomešana sa hlebom.

Ne bleji vetar uzalud tako žalobno,
ružnije nego stado zatrudnelih ovaca
u zoru,
u dvorištu klanice.

Točkovi tutnje.
Tutnje.

A rebra su mi sve više
dve okrvavljene roletne
kroz koje srce šiklja
i ruke mi poliva,
kao mlaz vrele nafte
usijani vod trafostanice.

English Translation

North Express

Perhaps nobody was ever able to want you like this
the way I do tonight.

Your hands, white like solitude.
Your thighs that taste like linen and fruits.
Your a bit rustling voice.

With my nose boyishly stuck
to the train’s windowpane.

unclear to myself
like a suicide note of an epileptic

and strangely upset by the warmth
like a spoiled dog,

I’m traveling, here, I’m traveling,
to stuff my head with so far unimagined sights,
to wish, to the trees, the most beautiful night
in the world.

to spin like leaves,
like the wind over lawns,
like the stars and birds.

To have no plan for a while.

To imitate keyboards,
lifts
and the ocean.

To forget the hand on your waist.
And the face touching your face.

I had to invent that you were something completely,
completely permanent.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have endured
chained inside these red-hot ribs.

I imagined I had already been seeing you
in ships’ anchors,
in old raffle ticket sellers’ eyeglasses
in rusty eyes of steel gods
on a village crucifix.

Again the evening is somehow insanely shiny,
and the distances under the wet stars
are full of milk
and silver.

I had to imagine you were something completely,
completely infinite,
in these clumsy nights
that imitate happiness.

And don’t even ask about me.
Who am I?
Nobody.
Grass.

I swear on all those lit up windows
that I envied for their curtains
when I served in the navy.

I’m an elephant’s birthday
and an ant’s death
on the same straw mattress.

Indeed,
you really so wonderfully don’t know me.

One thousand jungles is brushing their hairs
in my candied eye.

I’m dreaming of you in sorrow, for nights,
like a soldier dreams of somebody else’s pornographic picture,

Within me, there live chapels
and night clubs
and some horses gone crazy
that survived some huge slaughter.

Within me, shipwreck victims and lands in the horizon
are drowning.

To you I will admit:
I, an unrelenting coward,
was sometimes astonishingly brave

because of recruit mirrors, due to which many
will never become invalids.

I wrote verses to make things a bit more bearable
in the all-male waiting rooms of skin dispensaries.

I understood how castrated bulls must feel,
and, with miners, I used
to maliciously chat
about clouds and oceans.

I was everything that was numb
and ashamed.
Everything that can and can not be seen at nights.
Everything that is spoken and not shown in days.

I’m the one who asked
for invention of such a state
where conductors reign.

The only country where everyone can travel
wherever they want to.

I’m the one who folded hands
to invent an exquisite state
which would give pension to dreamers from an early age
and massively vaccinate school children
against loneliness.

Now I have nothing left,
just this heart,
huge,
nasty
and hungry.

This wild drums reserve
and a hypnotised zoo.

I will show you hippopotamuses of my sorrow.
Zebras of my silliness.
And monkeys of drunkeness.

I will show you this within me
that resembles a robbed gambling house
and robbed death.

Everybody is leaving somewhere
There, look at them leaving
like the aspic bell sound.

For days they’ve been leaving somewhere like the myrrh smell,
silently
and tiptoeing.

In their eyes there are some clay pearls,
and fair candies,
and some worn-out straws in their mouth.

Nobody has ever really wanted you
so terribly, like I do tonight.

You with the smell of soap,
ink,
smell of school dances,
lapels that got wet in the rain,
fog
and tram bells ringing.

In my veins, for you flows
some kind of white blood,
something like the lace on your shoulder,
or the taste of your incisors in my palms.

Something like a kiss
between two illegible wrinkled pages
of some swiftly written letter.

Or something like blood under nails
in between two most colourful rugs.

And I haven’t even told you about the rain:
it dented my lips entirely.

Kissed me a bit.
Killed me a bit.

Standing astride myself,
I was gaping at my foaming pupil for days
like at a scented bathtub.

Under my skin, spindles resided.

Beneath the top of my head, stacks of mud
stank like four wars.

You can imagine how it was
when I generally had no brother
in that city
where, every night, they tried over
to steal my head.

All I had was numberless foolish steps
from wall
to wall.

And back:
from wall
to wall.

I had a bit of somebody else’s laughter and cry
deposited on things.

And that autumn,
that autumn the most beautiful one in the world,
the one that smells like rain, like a Gipsy
when she’s taking off her yellow dresses
and bleeding among the treetops.

See how you wonderfully don’t know me at all.
Maybe I’m not even grass.
Maybe I just learned, by heart, how to run
from maternity hospital to tombstone
in some Pannonian town
of Austro-Hungarian origin.

Within me, a sky,
hanged by legs,
is hovering as if it’s sleeping,
and it’s the only sky that doesn’t know how to sleep.

Within me, a sky is hanging like a flag
terribly swollen from the wind.

A train is roaring.
Roaring.

Do something so that at least your city
doesn’t run into me
with solitude cannons
fired into this living mouth.

Break up, into my throat, bird wings
mixed with bread.

The wind is not bleating so sadly in vain
uglier than a flog of impregnated sheep
at dawn
in a slaughterhouse yard.

Wheels are roaring.
Roaring.

And my ribs are more and more becoming
two window blinds covered with blood
through which my heart is gushing
and moistening my hands,
like a rush of boiling oil
on a red-hot electrical substation duct.

SpringPoezija ~ PoetryMiroslav AnticMožda niko nije umeo da te želi ovako kao ja noćas. Tvoje ruke bele kao samoća. Tvoja bedra sa ukusom platna i voća. Tvoj malo šuštavi glas. Sa nosom dečački prilepljenim uz okno vagona, nejasan samom sebi kao oproštajno pismo padavičara i čudno uznemiren toplinom kao razmažen pas, putujem, evo, putujem, da natrpam u glavu još neslućene predele, da drveću poželim najlepšu...Profesionalni prevodi vaših omiljenih pesama. Translation of Serbian, Croatian, Bosnian, ex-YU lyrics, poems etc. All Eurovision Lyrics