JA PESNIK I JA
Ti si onaj što u zoru ranu dolazi
malo povijen pod dlanom noćnim!
Ime je moje jutro promrzlo, seti se.
Ja sam čuvar tvoje tajne, ti znaš to!
Znam samo da reka je tajna moja,
potonji stih ptice na umoru prema nebu.
A govorio si da sloboda je u tvojim njedrima!
Ja sam sužanj koji hrli, uspinje se ka njoj
i peva svoju pesmu prolaznosti i utiranja.
Govorio si da znaš leteti i da ćeš večno,
na krilima dosegnuti sve daljine, visine.
Pesme me nose, tamo gde zove me daljina,
i reka, visina čeka, kad zatvori se knjiga,
pročita zadnji stih, pero golubice zastane.
Da skončaćeš ,,Prelaz" na naboljem mestu
gde reka je mirna i spokojna, rekao si.
Pre no što odem sa svojim jutrom, prosuću sve
svoje pesme u bistroj vodi, to sam rekao, to!
Ti si onaj što s ranim jutrom odlazi, bez osvrtanja,
ptice budi, pozdravljan lavežom pasa lutalica.
Kad zakoračim u prvo jutro sa stihom što hoće,
rođenje svoje, i mesto najbolje u pesmi, kao grom,
na tmurnom nebu, vraćam se na brdo odakle pogled
najbolje doseže, puca, otvaram sve vratnice odgovora.
i istine... znaš li to?
Sećam se kako govorio si o stvaranju,
da jedini pravi put je ka istini stvaranja.
Ja sam istina, trag što ostavio sam
na obalama i putevima, vetru što pominje
moje ime nad požutelim lišćem, mesečini.
Tako si nekad bio blag u svojoj blagosti i senci,
pitoma je bila pesma tvoja i stih krepio dušu.
Zaćutala je moja blaga pesma od prevelikog davanja,
kišama i zrikavcima, pesmi njihovoj na mesečini,
lutanjima, plovidbama, prelazima, prolazima
pod fenjerskim svetlima, ćutnjama i slutnjama,
obalama, i valovima svemu, ti znaš sigurno to.
Tvoje ime je jutro, sa malo inja na rukama,
ti si deo zraka jutarnjeg, pitanje kako prožeti stih,
svim odgovorima, kad zastaneš posle dugog puta.
Ja sam stih na požutelom papiru stranice, knjige,
samo to i pomalo drugo nešto, to dobro znaš.
Govorio si da trajaće onaj žar i vatra, plamen,
do večnosti, do tvoje, moje, naše daljine, rekao si!
Govorio sam, sve u njedrima nosio, uvek, znaš,
kao najlepši stih, pesmu, ptica moja čuvala sve, sve,
znaš tu pesmu istine, znaš je, seti je se, kad obgrli noć,
i spusti svoje satenske zastore, mesec promoli, proviri,
kroz prozor i da svoje srebrne odgovore, daje sve, znaj.
Jednom progovorio si posle duge ćutnje na obali,
među pticama i divljim cvećem, laganim povetarcima,
dok reka te je pozdravljala svojim šapatima, svojim čulima,
govorio o žeđi za spoznajom vala, brzini da smogne se
odgovor na sva traganja, sva stremljenja, prepun boja bio si.
Bio sam na krilima vilinog konjica sa svim jarkim toplim bojama,
bio sam svedok, umiranja i nestajanja, znaš to, na dlanu mom
mrtva ptica, uspavana bila je, u kljun kad ljubio sam je,
nebo je plakalo i ja sam, znaš to!
Ti si onaj što u zoru ranu dolazi
malo povijen pod dlanom noćnim!
Ime je moje jutro promrzlo, seti se.
Ja sam čuvar tvoje tajne, ti znaš to!
Znam samo da reka je tajna moja,
potonji stih ptice na umoru prema nebu.
A govorio si da sloboda je u tvojim njedrima!
Ja sam sužanj koji hrli, uspinje se ka njoj
i peva svoju pesmu prolaznosti i utiranja.
Govorio si da znaš leteti i da ćeš večno,
na krilima dosegnuti sve daljine, visine.
Pesme me nose, tamo gde zove me daljina,
i reka, visina čeka, kad zatvori se knjiga,
pročita zadnji stih, pero golubice zastane.
Da skončaćeš ,,Prelaz" na naboljem mestu
gde reka je mirna i spokojna, rekao si.
Pre no što odem sa svojim jutrom, prosuću sve
svoje pesme u bistroj vodi, to sam rekao, to!
Ti si onaj što s ranim jutrom odlazi, bez osvrtanja,
ptice budi, pozdravljan lavežom pasa lutalica.
Kad zakoračim u prvo jutro sa stihom što hoće,
rođenje svoje, i mesto najbolje u pesmi, kao grom,
na tmurnom nebu, vraćam se na brdo odakle pogled
najbolje doseže, puca, otvaram sve vratnice odgovora.
i istine... znaš li to?
Sećam se kako govorio si o stvaranju,
da jedini pravi put je ka istini stvaranja.
Ja sam istina, trag što ostavio sam
na obalama i putevima, vetru što pominje
moje ime nad požutelim lišćem, mesečini.
Tako si nekad bio blag u svojoj blagosti i senci,
pitoma je bila pesma tvoja i stih krepio dušu.
Zaćutala je moja blaga pesma od prevelikog davanja,
kišama i zrikavcima, pesmi njihovoj na mesečini,
lutanjima, plovidbama, prelazima, prolazima
pod fenjerskim svetlima, ćutnjama i slutnjama,
obalama, i valovima svemu, ti znaš sigurno to.
Tvoje ime je jutro, sa malo inja na rukama,
ti si deo zraka jutarnjeg, pitanje kako prožeti stih,
svim odgovorima, kad zastaneš posle dugog puta.
Ja sam stih na požutelom papiru stranice, knjige,
samo to i pomalo drugo nešto, to dobro znaš.
Govorio si da trajaće onaj žar i vatra, plamen,
do večnosti, do tvoje, moje, naše daljine, rekao si!
Govorio sam, sve u njedrima nosio, uvek, znaš,
kao najlepši stih, pesmu, ptica moja čuvala sve, sve,
znaš tu pesmu istine, znaš je, seti je se, kad obgrli noć,
i spusti svoje satenske zastore, mesec promoli, proviri,
kroz prozor i da svoje srebrne odgovore, daje sve, znaj.
Jednom progovorio si posle duge ćutnje na obali,
među pticama i divljim cvećem, laganim povetarcima,
dok reka te je pozdravljala svojim šapatima, svojim čulima,
govorio o žeđi za spoznajom vala, brzini da smogne se
odgovor na sva traganja, sva stremljenja, prepun boja bio si.
Bio sam na krilima vilinog konjica sa svim jarkim toplim bojama,
bio sam svedok, umiranja i nestajanja, znaš to, na dlanu mom
mrtva ptica, uspavana bila je, u kljun kad ljubio sam je,
nebo je plakalo i ja sam, znaš to!
MASKS
I hear your name
carried by wind from a distance,
in this chilly sneaking morning
dripping through the fingers of fall.
I hear something like violin moaning
through the wind from afar,
now when we took off the masks,
and irretrievably farewell the night,
turning off the candle flame.
Calmed in slight inclination
after the third act,
now when all the curtains are down,
frozen fingers turn the pages of the book.
In this sneaking morning
dripping through the fingers of fall.
Down the sodden street after the rain
I hear a voice carried by wind.
I hear you talking!...
something incomplete...
And yet the morning it is,
our exquisite masks,
cast off within reach,
we are stopping, we pause, numb,
having finished acting in the play.
And yet, the morning it is !
Covered with silence we disappear
into the bark of the yellow dog
staring up in the moon,
and into one lonely star.
I hear the echo of the steps
throughout this chilly denounced morning
silently sneaking,
dripping through the fingers of fall.
I hear your name
carried by wind from a distance,
in this chilly sneaking morning
dripping through the fingers of fall.
I hear something like violin moaning
through the wind from afar,
now when we took off the masks,
and irretrievably farewell the night,
turning off the candle flame.
Calmed in slight inclination
after the third act,
now when all the curtains are down,
frozen fingers turn the pages of the book.
In this sneaking morning
dripping through the fingers of fall.
Down the sodden street after the rain
I hear a voice carried by wind.
I hear you talking!...
something incomplete...
And yet the morning it is,
our exquisite masks,
cast off within reach,
we are stopping, we pause, numb,
having finished acting in the play.
And yet, the morning it is !
Covered with silence we disappear
into the bark of the yellow dog
staring up in the moon,
and into one lonely star.
I hear the echo of the steps
throughout this chilly denounced morning
silently sneaking,
dripping through the fingers of fall.
|
WITH SPEAR IN THE THORNS
Morning leads
one step
closer.
In this war
which has no end,
persists even
to infinity.
And arrows
and spears,
have not hit the thorns.
And I want
I want in the morning,
to reach it.
END OF THE BROKEN WILLOW
(Hope)
To you as a gift
handful of stars
in lonely night
barking of stray dogs
the deserted sidewalk.
Grain of dust from my eyes
and breath with raised palms.
A song from the lips
long whisper through the silence
as the gift,
drops of water, to you,
dreams and wings.
In what we will take off
into eternity and beyond ...
And our flowers!
In flaming fire
at the sunset,we will kiss.
DISTANCE
Be morning
the palm of my hand,
water drop
the powder is to be lost.
Far North,
wind over the open sea of unrest,
spark in the eye
under the open sky.
Now that dream
on the amount of
and when I saw all
I do not believe repeatability .
Be height
I would do that,
stone lighthouse tires,
I swear
I would now far away.
Among the yellowing of leaves
as the breath of autumn
roams,
I was not there, you be.
Whisper after step,
unknown distance,
I would now far away.
the palm of my hand,
water drop
the powder is to be lost.
Far North,
wind over the open sea of unrest,
spark in the eye
under the open sky.
Now that dream
on the amount of
and when I saw all
I do not believe repeatability .
Be height
I would do that,
stone lighthouse tires,
I swear
I would now far away.
Among the yellowing of leaves
as the breath of autumn
roams,
I was not there, you be.
Whisper after step,
unknown distance,
I would now far away.
SVE PRIČE
Mi smo zatočenici
ovoga brda
na kojem vjetrovi biju,
traga duge poslije kiše
moja tiha pjesmo
na ruci trag rose,
rano jutro se prikrada,
preko usana napola riječ.
Klizi prema tebi
kao pero tragom
na bijelom papiru,
ja sam tu negdje
na pola puta prema snu.
S ključem skrivenim u njedrima
kada se vratim,
kada ponekad svratim
sa žutim cvjetovima za tebe
moja tiha pjesmo.
Mi smo zatočeni
s pogledom u nepoznatu daljinu
obamrli od nestvarne slutnje
i posustalog daha.
Hoću do vrha
korakom za korakom
u ovom plesu pijanom.
Mi smo zatočenici ovoga brda
gdje slike su nestvarno vatrene.
Kao brodolomstvo preko valova
s potopljenim mjesecom u pjeni.
Dok strune violina se čuju
ponirem,poniremo
u trenu kad poželjena je tišina
i kad bijeg je nestvarna potreba,
nestvarni ples povlači.
Vino ljubi
tamo gdje najviše zalutali smo
u izgubljenom trenu starog romantika,
kad kiše prate dugo
smišljanu nakanu,
i kad srušeni su svi prelazi.
Sami smo
među mnogim obespokojenjima
i pitanjima gdje se uspeti ?
Ponirati bez bola
neka gori nebo ispod kojeg smo
zalutali !
U lavirintu
u voćnjaku utočište prećutali
gdje smo,šta je pod kaputom starim ?
U džepu skrito,
toliko snažno na dohvatu.
Moja tiha pjesmo.
ALL STORIES
We are prisoners
this mountain
where the winds beat,
mark long after the rain
my silent song
mark on his hand rose,
early morning stalking,
through word of mouth half.
Glides toward you
footsteps as a feather
on white paper,
I'm here somewhere
halfway to the dream.
On the key hidden in the bosom
when I get back,
Sometimes when you stop by
with yellow flowers for you
my silent song.
We have detained
with a view to an unknown distance
fainted from fanciful conjecture
and the stalled breath.
I want to tip
step by step
in this dance drunk.
We are prisoners of this hill
where the pictures are surreal fire.
As shipwrecks over the waves
flooded with moon in the foam.
While the violin strings are heard
sinks, delves
in an instant when the silence is highly recommended:
and when the flight is unreal needs,
unreal dance retreats.
Wine loves
where we wandered up
lost in the moment of the old romance,
when rains follow a long
dreamed up the intention,
if all transitions have been destroyed.
We ourselves
among many discouragement
and issues where they succeed?
Sink without pain
a burning sky under which we
stray!
In the labyrinth
suppressed in the orchard shelter
where we are, what was the old coat?
The stash pocket,
so hard to reach.
My silent song.
this mountain
where the winds beat,
mark long after the rain
my silent song
mark on his hand rose,
early morning stalking,
through word of mouth half.
Glides toward you
footsteps as a feather
on white paper,
I'm here somewhere
halfway to the dream.
On the key hidden in the bosom
when I get back,
Sometimes when you stop by
with yellow flowers for you
my silent song.
We have detained
with a view to an unknown distance
fainted from fanciful conjecture
and the stalled breath.
I want to tip
step by step
in this dance drunk.
We are prisoners of this hill
where the pictures are surreal fire.
As shipwrecks over the waves
flooded with moon in the foam.
While the violin strings are heard
sinks, delves
in an instant when the silence is highly recommended:
and when the flight is unreal needs,
unreal dance retreats.
Wine loves
where we wandered up
lost in the moment of the old romance,
when rains follow a long
dreamed up the intention,
if all transitions have been destroyed.
We ourselves
among many discouragement
and issues where they succeed?
Sink without pain
a burning sky under which we
stray!
In the labyrinth
suppressed in the orchard shelter
where we are, what was the old coat?
The stash pocket,
so hard to reach.
My silent song.
PREGRŠT BELINE
Jutro će čuti
naše korake
glasove nošene
vetrom,daleko
iznad vode.
Slike kad
povrate se
pred očima,
tragove uporedimo,
istinski dodir
hladnoće oseti.
Kad shvatiš da
obale su zaleđene
i nešto nedostaje,
prazne u trenu.
Verujem
da težnja ka visini
još traje.
I prelaz je tu negde,
kad dah u šake
u mekoću beline,
kad jutro čuje korake.
naše korake
glasove nošene
vetrom,daleko
iznad vode.
Slike kad
povrate se
pred očima,
tragove uporedimo,
istinski dodir
hladnoće oseti.
Kad shvatiš da
obale su zaleđene
i nešto nedostaje,
prazne u trenu.
Verujem
da težnja ka visini
još traje.
I prelaz je tu negde,
kad dah u šake
u mekoću beline,
kad jutro čuje korake.
A HANDFUL WHITE
The morning will hear
our steps
voices carried
wind, far
above the water.
Picture when
returns to
sight,
Comparing the traces,
truly touch
feel the cold.
When you realize that
the icy shores
and something is missing,
empty in an instant.
I believe
the pursuit of the amount
continues.
The crossing is there somewhere
when you breath in the hands
the softness of white,
morning when they heard the steps.
our steps
voices carried
wind, far
above the water.
Picture when
returns to
sight,
Comparing the traces,
truly touch
feel the cold.
When you realize that
the icy shores
and something is missing,
empty in an instant.
I believe
the pursuit of the amount
continues.
The crossing is there somewhere
when you breath in the hands
the softness of white,
morning when they heard the steps.
GOVOR BOJE
Govorim o vremenu
prošlom o usamljenoj obali,
vodi,slikama,kad odem
s kišom u rano jutro.
U svoju pobedu,na putu
priču starih pripovedača
bez otkrivanja velikih tajni,
govorim o lepoti žala.
Kad sve se otkrije i ponudi
valima što iz njedara pučine nahrupe,
onda kažem nekoliko probranih reči
onako usput al' ipak dovoljno snažno.
O toplim bojama ,razlivenim
niz dlanove poslednji put
za neko predvečerje,neko mesto
govorim:,,gledaj u tu vatrenu boju,plam''.
U svom starom kaputu što čuvam
kao pticu, trak svetla ,kap vode,
kao želju za visinom,daljinom.
Govorim:,,veruj putniku starih i novih vrlina''.
SPEECH OF COLORS
I'm talking about the time
past the lonely shore,
water pictures when I go
with rain in the morning.
In his victory on the road
story the old storyteller
without revealing the great secrets,
talking about the beauty of the beach.
When all is discovered and offered
waves as the bosom bounded open sea,
Then say a few words selected
by the way but I still strongly enough.
The warm colors, blurred
series of hands last
for one evening, a place
I say: 'look at the color of fire, flame''.
In his old coat, which I keep
as a bird, strip light, a drop of water,
as a desire for height, distance.
I speak: 'Trust the traveler of old and new virtues''.
prošlom o usamljenoj obali,
vodi,slikama,kad odem
s kišom u rano jutro.
U svoju pobedu,na putu
priču starih pripovedača
bez otkrivanja velikih tajni,
govorim o lepoti žala.
Kad sve se otkrije i ponudi
valima što iz njedara pučine nahrupe,
onda kažem nekoliko probranih reči
onako usput al' ipak dovoljno snažno.
O toplim bojama ,razlivenim
niz dlanove poslednji put
za neko predvečerje,neko mesto
govorim:,,gledaj u tu vatrenu boju,plam''.
U svom starom kaputu što čuvam
kao pticu, trak svetla ,kap vode,
kao želju za visinom,daljinom.
Govorim:,,veruj putniku starih i novih vrlina''.
SPEECH OF COLORS
I'm talking about the time
past the lonely shore,
water pictures when I go
with rain in the morning.
In his victory on the road
story the old storyteller
without revealing the great secrets,
talking about the beauty of the beach.
When all is discovered and offered
waves as the bosom bounded open sea,
Then say a few words selected
by the way but I still strongly enough.
The warm colors, blurred
series of hands last
for one evening, a place
I say: 'look at the color of fire, flame''.
In his old coat, which I keep
as a bird, strip light, a drop of water,
as a desire for height, distance.
I speak: 'Trust the traveler of old and new virtues''.