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O Sati Sumnje, Sati Bola

O Sati Sumnje, Sati Bola

O sati sumnje, sati bola,
Ko stvara, taj vas kleti neće
Jer radosti su male svijeće,
A iz vas raste aureola.

Slabašnu djecu radost radja,
I njezin porod brzo gine,
A pjesme, rasplamsane bolom,
Gore ko svjetla za daljine.


O Hours of Doubt, Hours of Pain

O hours of doubt, hours of pain
One who creates will never curse you
For your joys are little candles,
And your outcome is the aureole.

Weak children are born by joy,
And its offspring will perish quickly,
But poems fired by pain,
Burn like lights in the distance.




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