Kad umrem,
tako mi je zao sto ce mi obuci frak
i zadenuti u rever cvet umesto rane,
a ja sam za zivota
sa vojnickih kosulja uzimao kroj.

Zar niste primetili da mi se ochi
neznije od aprila
duboko negde u vidicima
vecito potmulo dime!

Ja sam onaj neznani junak
koji je bezbroj puta s vama odlazio u mrak
i ponovo se vracao u svaki zivi stroj
od Termopila do Hirosime.

Dobro zapamtite ovu koracnicu
sastavljenu od reci pomalo prljavih i modrih.
Hteo bih da se ona zarije u vase srce
kao bajonet u vojnicke zivote.

Ja sam sadio groblja u travi
i iz kalpaka srkao corbu na Odri;
ja sam Evropu kupio za jetrenu pastetu,

a ujutro joj pucao u trbuh od sramote.

Dobro zapamtite ovu koracnicu.
Ja sam nosio brnjicu od bodljikave zice
i pevao i smejao se
ponekad i polulud od bolova.

Ja sam bio kapela,
ljuljao sam se obesen i zut na raskrscima
i zvonio kao zvona celog sveta sam.

A danas,
samo sam obicna kozna vreca puna kostiju
i secanja
i olova,

ali bar znam da me niko nece prevariti
jer suvise znam.

Kad cujem tisinu,
zatvoricu se u sobu i jaukacu.
Tisina je zlocin s predumisljajem,
topla i meka omcha licemerja oko vrata.

Tisina je lirska medjuigra za fabrikovanje dece
i dvolican nacin da se covek izleci od straha
i pokusa da bude jos jednom jak.

Samo,
ja vise nemam hrabrosti za takvu ljubav
zbog koje cu ponovo ici da ubijam
mrtve vojnike iz poslednjeg
i pretposlednjeg rata.

Dobro zapamtite ovu koracnicu.
Hocu da vam se zarije duboko u gola srca
kao usijana zvezda u avgustovski mrak.

Ja,
koji sam nekad zubima srljao
u zadimljene godine
i sakama vidike deljao i dero,
ja,
koji sam nekada mlatarao vetrenjacama udova
i gromko pevao velikim poderanim ustima,
taj isti ja,
danas,
samo sam mali,
zalosnosmesni,
neregrutovani heroj,
osudjen da raspredam paucinu svakidasnjice
svojim rapavim prstima.

Ismejace me
ako gospodju mater,
boze mi oprosti: trudnu,
uhvatim za ruku i odvedem na bal,
da bi buduce bebe bele od mleka i zuba
naucile na vreme dvolicnost ove igre
u kojoj se gomila uskomesala.
Izrugace se
sto ne razumem ovu svilenu tugu
i ovu svilenu ljubav,
i sto od iste duge krojim i shal
i vesala.

Da su bar zadimljene davne godine,
ne bi imalo sta da se objasnjava.
Reklo bi se: bio je,
pa sta,
– bar zore na njega liche.
A ovako sam penzionisani budilnik
koji uvek zakasnjava
iako srljam da prvi svitanja otkukuricem.

Ponekad mi se jos u ocima
usire daleki vetrovi sto zaudaraju na pokolj,
zar niste primetili,
usire se davni ridji brodolomi,
pa lomim sanjive ruke od bola i od zhelja.

Tu nece moci da pomogne nijedan ochni lekar:
nama su duse razroke jer gledali smo siroko,
siroko kao kraj u kome su nas okotile
matere nase ruzne i voljene
zelene od loze i kisa,
zute od sveca i cutanja,
i plave od uspavanki i veselja.

Sta cu ja u ovoj tisini
kad sam za nemire stvoren?
Sta cu tu gde je ljigavo
od negovanih ruku?

Sunce mi se kao svrdlo uvrce u potiljak
i poslednji se osmeh od moga daha zborao.

Sad i ako tuku
– drukcije nekako tuku,
i nijedan mrav nije postao orao,
mada je dosta da samo pozeli
i postao bi orao.

Nema vise oluja.
Reke odevene u kichme od mulja,
u bedra od riba,
odevene u trbuhe od algi,
ravnodusno teku.

Nema vise oluja
u krvi zutih trava
i grana nad bivsim brzacima.

Sta mi vredi da izvirem
i svake noci sanjam da cu odlutati nekud,
kad sam izgubio ushce,
pa se smuseno osvrcem i kotrljam preko obala
pod nebom
preoranim suncanim zracima.

Pokusao sam najiskrenije,
ali ne razumem se u kamenje sto miruje
i to mi je sva krivica.

Mozda sam samo zbog ljuljaski imao obraza
da ostanem
ovom svetu u gostima.

Inace,
sta cu ovako divno lud sa ovih 25 ptica
u mojoj krvi i kostima?

Mozda postoji nekakva molitva koja sve resava
i sve oprasta.
Mozda i u kockama uzidanim u drumove
zivi nekakav nemir neprestan i dug.

Ali sta cemo kad nas ima i ovakvih
koji uvek ponovo moramo da cvetamo
kao basta
od aprila do septembra,
pa onda opet ponovo tako,
i ponovo,
i ponovo u krug.

Sta cemo
kad smo se mi trudili sve da razumemo
a nismo sve razumeli?

Sta cemo kad smo posteno navlacili bezazlene grimase
na oljustena lica?

Sta cemo
kad smo silom u sebi davili grmljavine
i shumeli,
ali nakazno shumeli,
nepromisljeno razapeti izmedju rachundzija
i samoubica?

Da su mi opet one stare, zadimljene godine,
lako bi mi bilo da se igram ludosti
i drvecu u kosu vezujem duge.

Ili da shirim ruke neka se slapovi neba
na mene s urlikom rushe.

Svracao bih u jednu divnu krcmu
na drumu odavde do tuge
gde su stolovi burad baruta,
a gosti smeju da puse.

Javno bih okolo pricao da sam toranj,
da strah za oblake znacim,
i trcao bih niz polja
da se s matorim sumama rvem.

Uopste,
lako bi mi bilo da se igram ludosti
i u sve dane zmureci zakoracim,
pa posle,
kad se osvrnem,
da pljunem na katastrofe
koje su pretile da me zgaze i smrve.

A ovako,
u meni sve vreme skrguce
jedan neugledni Don Kihot
i ja bih vecito da se borim!

A trube su pretopljene u cajnike.
Sad ponovo samo violine sviraju.

Svake veceri tempiram krevet i budilnik
i opet nikako da izgorim,
jer i mine su postale starije i pametnije,
pa prvo dobro razmisle,
a onda – ne eksplodiraju.

Pustite neka za mnom kao slucajno
masu zelene ruke granja.

Pustite neka na mene pljuste svetovi.
Moram da kisnem ovako nerazuman.

Oprostimo se od nekih stvari obicnim gestovima
i odlutajmo bez osvrtanja.

Sacuvajmo ochi za nove neke svetlosti
sto se ljuste kao cvetovi
iza prvih suma.

A kad me budu proneli
govorice se kako je umro jedan jablan
koji je svakog jutra brstio visine,
pa je svu njusku zvezdama pozlatio.

Ispasce
kao da nisam ziveo do bedara u mulju
u barama zelenim.

Najzad:
ako izbrojimo na prste,
– svima se isto hvata.

Mojsije,
onaj sto je rasklapao mora
i izmisljao obecane zemlje,
zakonodavac i pesak
i ukrotitelj hlebova,

Odisej,
onaj sto je svisnuo od zevanja i dosade
kad se vratio,

i ja,
– svi mi smo na kraju posteno udeseni.
Izmislice da smo vodili drvorede,
a bili smo samo procvetali chiviluci
za susenje odranih kozha.

Izmislice da smo u dahu nosili svezine,
a bili smo ustajali u svojoj nespretnosti,
odeveni u nakazanu koru.

Nista mi nismo uticali na jutro
da se ne presijava kao ostrica noza.

Ziveli smo,
i sa zivotinjskim smislom za prakticno
organizovali zanimljive programe
za telad koja cekaju,
dok smo odraslima vezivali za gubice
korpu cutanja
uoci poslednjeg velikog crvenog mukanja
u zoru.

tn_BurningPassion

English Translation

Epitaph For The Deluded

When I die,
Too bad that they will dress me in a tailcoat
and stick a flower on my lapel instead of wound,
though I have, during my life,
been taking measurements of military shirts

Didn’t you notice that my eyes
more delicate than April
somewhere deep in the horizons
eternally somberly emit smoke!

I’m the unknown soldier
that followed you into the dark numerous times
and returned again into every living formation
from Thermopylae to Hiroshima.

Remember this march well
consisting of words somewhat dirty and blue.
I’d like it to plunge into your heart
like a bayonet into soldiers’ lives.

I’ve planted cemeteries in the grass
and sipped chowder out of a helmet by the Odra;
I’ve bought Europe for liver sausage,

and in the morning shut her in the belly out of shame.

Remember this march well.
I wore a muzzle made of barbwire
and sang and laughed
sometimes even half insane from pain.

I was a chapel,
I swung hanging and yellow on crossroads
and rang alone like bells of the entire world.

But today,
I’m just a common leather sack of bones
and memories
and lead,

but at least I know that nobody can trick me
because I know too much.

When I hear the silence,
I will lock my self up in my room and howl.
Silence is a premeditated crime,
a warm and soft noose of hypocrisy around one’s neck.

Silence is a lyrical interlude for fabrication of children
and a hypocritical way of curing one’s fear
and trying to be strong once again.

Just,
I no longer have the courage for such love
that will, again, make me go kill
the dead soldiers from the last war
and the one before it.

Remember this march well.
I want it to plunge deep into your naked hearts
like a shiny star into August darkness.

I,
who once rushed with my teeth
into years filled with smoke
and carved and tore with my hands,
I,
who once waved my windmill limbs
and sang loudly with my torn mouth,
the same me,
today,
is just a small,
sadly funny,
unrecruited hero,
condemned to unravel the cobweb of everyday events
with my rough fingers.

They will laugh at me
if I take Mrs. mother,
god forbid: pregnant,
by the hand and take her to the ball,
so that future babies, white from milk and teeth
would, in time, learn the hypocrisy of this game
in which the crowd got stirred up.
They will mock me
for not understanding this silky sorrow
and this silky love,
and because, out of the same rainbow, I’m cutting out a scarf
as well as gallows.

If only the old times were lost in smoke,
there would be nothing to explain.
It would be said: he was,
so what,
– at least the dawns look like him.
But this way, I’m a retired alarm clock
that is always slow
although I rush to be the first to cock-a-doodle-doo at daybreaks.

Still sometimes, in my eyes,
far winds, that stink of slaughter, curdle
didn’t you notice,
ancient sorrel shipwrecks curdle,
so I brake dreamy hands in pain and in yearning.

No eye doctor could help with that:
our souls are cross-eyed because we looked widely,
as wide as the homeland where we were given birth to
by our ugly and loved mothers
green from vine and rains,
yellow from flowers and silence,
and blue from lullabies and joy.

What am I doing in this silence
when I was made for restlessness?
What am I doing here where it’s slimy
from nurtured hands?

The Sun is like a drill tightening into the back of my head
and my breath wrinkled the last smile.

Now even when they beat
– they somehow differently beat,
and no ant has ever became an eagle,
although it’s enough to just wish
and it would become an eagle.

There are no more storms.
Rivers, dressed in spines made of mud,
in thighs made of fish,
dressed in bellies made of algae,
calmly flow.

There are no more storms
in yellow grass’s blood
and branches over the ex rapids.

Of what good is it to me to rise
and, every night, dream that I will wander off somewhere,
when I’ve lost my mouth,
so I confusedly look back and roll over the shores
under the sunrays
plowed by the sky.

I’ve honestly tried,
but I know nothing about stones that stand still
and that’s my only fault.

Maybe just because of the swings I dared
to stay
in this world as a guest.

Otherwise,
what can I, wonderfully crazy like this, do with the 25 birds
in my blood and bones?

Maybe there’s some kind of a prayer that solves everything
and forgives everything.
Maybe in the cubes built in the roads
there lives some kind of a restlessness, constant and long.

But what can we do when those like us also exist
those who always have to bloom again
like a garden
from April till September,
and then all over again,
and again
and again in circles.

What can we do
when we were trying to understand everything
but we didn’t understand everything?

What can we do when we, in all sincerity, used to carry innocent expression
on peeled faces?

What can we do
when we choked the thunders inside us by force
and we murmured
but we monstrously murmured,
recklessly torn between calculated people
and suiciders?

If I had the old, smoky years,
it would be easy for me to act foolishly
and tie rainbows into trees’ hairs.

Or to spread my arms let the sky’s waterfalls
collapse on me with a howl.

I’d drop by a wonderful inn
on the road from here to sorrow
where tables are gunpowder drums,
and guests are allowed to smoke.

I’d publicly brag about me being a tower,
about being the clouds’ fear
and I’d run down the fields
to wrestle with senile forests.

In general,
that’s what it would be like for me if I’d act foolishly
and step into days with my eyes closed,
and then later,
when I look back,
I’d spit on the catastrophes
that threatened to run me over and crush me.

But this way
a nondescript Don Quixote
is gnashing inside me all the time
and I constantly want to fight!

But the trumpets have been beaten into teapots.
Now again only violins play.

Every night, I set my bed and alarm clock
but I can’t seem to burn down,
because even mines have become older and wiser,
so they first think things through,
and then – don’t explode.

Let the green branches’ hands, as if it was unintentionally,
wave at me as I leave.

Let the worlds splash over me.
Being this unreasonable, I have to get wet.

Let’s say goodbye to some things with ordinary gestures
and let’s wander away without looking back.

Let’s save our eyes for some new lights
that are peeling like flowers
behind the first forests.

And when they carry me by
they will say that a globeflower died
one that browsed through the heights every morning
so he completely gilded his nose with stars.

It will seem
as if I hadn’t lived, up to my thighs, in mud
in green swamps.

Finally:
if we count on our fingers,
– it’s all the same to all of us.

Moses,
the one that put seas together
and invented the promised land,
a lawgiver and a pedestrian
and a bread tamer,

Odyssey,
the one that died of yawning and boredom
when he returned,

and me,
– in the end, we are all really messed up.
They will concoct that we led rows of trees,
while we were just blossomed clothes trees
for drying tanned skins.

They will concoct that we carried freshness in our breath,
while we were just stale in our clumsiness,
dressed in a deformed shell.

We’ve done nothing to make the morning
stop shining like knife blade.

We lived,
and with an animal instinct for what’s practical
organized interesting programs
for calves awaiting,
while we tied baskets of silence
on the adults’ snouts
on the eve of the big red mooing
at dawn.

SpringPoezija ~ PoetryMiroslav AnticKad umrem, tako mi je zao sto ce mi obuci frak i zadenuti u rever cvet umesto rane, a ja sam za zivota sa vojnickih kosulja uzimao kroj. Zar niste primetili da mi se ochi neznije od aprila duboko negde u vidicima vecito potmulo dime! Ja sam onaj neznani junak koji je bezbroj puta s vama odlazio u mrak i...Profesionalni prevodi vaših omiljenih pesama. Translation of Serbian, Croatian, Bosnian, ex-YU lyrics, poems etc. All Eurovision Lyrics