Serbo-Croatian Poetry Translation

Tatina pesma

Tatina pesma

Uzalud preturaš prašnjave slike

i tražiš mamine oči na njima.

Nađeš ih,

ali to nije mama,

iako hartija na nju liči.

Mama je za tebe nešto drugo:

to izmišljeno, što se ima

tek sad,

kad živimo ovako bez nje

u ovoj muškoj samačkoj priči.

Ne znam da li ćeš moći da shvatiš:

ljudi se rode,

žive

i sretnu.

I čini im se našli su sreću

i neku zvezdu istovetnu.

A posle:

zvezda počne da rđa

i počnu prepirke ko je kriv.

I mama tati odjednom tuđa.

I tata mami jadan i siv.

I tonu brakovi ko trošne lađe.

I trunu na dnu tuđih mora.

I mama drukčije nebo nađe.

A živeti se i dalje mora,

mada sve na nju svaki dan seća;

kud god se okreneš: njen je dah.

I sanjaš tu je,

na tvom uzglavlju,

i nežna i brižna u isti mah.

Veruj mi,

bilo je u početku

lepog u meni i u mami.

Zaboravimo ružne stvari

One odavno ne postoje.

Dok tako živimo ko dva drugara,

zar ti se čini da smo sami?

Zar nisam nešto sasvim tvoje?

Zar nisi nešto sasvim moje?

I nemoj da mi tunjavo šmrkaš

dok tražiš između prašnjavih slika.

Mama – to nije parče papira

na kom se zabeli lepote trag.

Proviri malo u ogledalo:

poznaćeš nešto od njenog lika,

kao što i ja često prepoznam

u sebi nekog ko mi je drag.

Ako se sretnete u životu,

ti, koji o njoj sad bajku stvaraš,

obriši bore sa njenog lica

i nemoj da se razočaraš.

Znaj, sve se menja.

Pa i mame.

Zgaze ih godine.

Sjaj im pokradu.

Al’ ti je,

da bi postao čovek,

u sebi zbog sebe čuvati moraš

izmišljenu i večno mladu.

Papa's poem

In vain you rummage the dusty photos

And look for the mother's eyes among them.

You find them,

But this is not mom

even if the paper may look like her.

For you, the mother is something else

something invented, and to be had,

now only,

when we live without her, like this

in a male story with bachelor's flair.

I don't know are you going to get this:

the people get born,

live

and meet each other.

and it looks to them they've found happiness

and that they follow a lodestar together.

After that

the star begins to rust

and arguments start, who is to blame.

To papa mom suddenly looks alien.

to mom the papa is grey, always same.

And marriages sink like crumbling vessels.

And rot at the bottom of foreign seas.

And the mom finds some different heavens.

The life must go on, whatever it means,

and everything reminds of her always;

Wherever you turn, you feel her breeze.

And you dream, here she is,

on your pillow,

tender and caring, with love and ease.

Believe me,

there was in the beginning

the beauty in me and in the mom.

Let us forget the ugly things.

They do not exist for a long time.

While we are living so, like two pals,

does it seem to you we are alone?

Am I not something quite yours?

Are you not something quite mine?

And don't snuffle here gloomily to me

while searching through the pictures of that age.

Mom, she is not a piece of paper

with a glistening trace of herself.

Take a short peek at the mirror:

you'll recognize something of her image,

just like I often recognize in me

someone quite dear to myself.

If you meet her sometimes later in life

now seeing your fairy's image instead,

Sweep off the wrinkles from the mom's face

and do not get disappointed.

You should know, everything changes,

And the moms, too.

The years tread them down,

Stealing their glamour.

But you have to,

In order to become a man,

always keep her in yourself for your own sake,

imaginary and young forever.

Translated by Slobodan Cekić
Za Meju ♥

Page updated

Google Sites

Report abuse