Mostarske kiše (превод на енглески)

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Mostarske kiše

Mostarske kiše
 
U Mostaru sam voleo neku Svetlanu jedne jeseni,
jao kad bih znao sa kim sada spava,
ne bi joj glava, ne bi joj glava,
jao kad bih znao ko je sada ljubi,
ne bi mu zubi, ne bi mu zubi,
jao kad bih znao ko to u meni bere kajsije
još nedozrele.
 
Govorio sam joj ti si derište, ti si balavica,
sve sam joj govorio.
I plakala je na moje ruke, na moje reči,
govorio sam joj ti si anđeo, ti si đavo,
telo ti zdravo što se praviš svetica,
a padale su svu noć neke modre kiše
nad Mostarom.
 
Nije bilo sunca, nije bilo ptica, ničeg nije bilo.
Pitala me je imam li brata, šta studiram,
jesam li Hrvat, volim li Rilkea,
sve me je pitala.
Pitala me je da li bih mogao sa svakom tako
sačuvaj Bože,
da li je volim, tiho je pitala,
a padale su nad Mostarom neke modre kiše,
ona je bila raskošno bela u sobnoj tmini
al' nije htela to da čini,
nije htela il' nije smela,
vrag bi joj znao.
 
Jesen je, ta mrtva jesen na oknima
njene oči ptica, njena bedra srna,
imala je mladež, mladež je imala,
ne smem da kažem,
imala je mladež, mali ljubičast,
ili mi se čini.
 
Pitala me je da li sam Hrvat, imam li devojku,
volim li Rilkea - sve me je pitala,
a na oknu su ko božićni zvončići moga detinjstva
zvonile kapi
i noćna pesma tekla tihano niz Donju Mahalu,
Ej, Sulejmana othranila majka.
 
Ona je prostrla svoje godine po parketu.
Njene su usne bile pune kao zrele breskve,
njene su dojke bile tople ko mali psići.
Govorio sam joj da je glupava, da se pravi važna,
Svetlana, Svetlana, znaš li ti da je atomski vek,
De Gol, Gagarin i koještarije,
sve sam joj govorio,
ona je plakala, ona je plakala.
 
Vodio sam je po Kujundžiluku, po aščinicama,
svuda sam je vodio,
u pećine je skrivao, na čardak je nosio,
pod mostovima se igrali žmurke, Neretva ždrebica,
pod starim mostom Crnjanskog joj govorio,
što je divan, šaputala je, što je divan.
 
Kolena joj crtao u vlažnom pesku,
smejala se tako vedro, tako nevino,
ko prvi ljiljani,
u džamije je vodio, Karađoz-beg mrtav, premrtav
pod teškim turbetom;
na grob Šantićev cveće je odnela,
malo plakala, kao i sve žene,
svuda sam je vodio.
 
Sada je ovo leto, sad sam sasvim drugi,
pišem neke pesme,
u jednom listu pola stupca za Peru Zupca
i ništa više,
a padale su svu noć nad Mostarom neke
modre kiše,
ona je bila raskošno bela u sobnoj tmini
al' nije htela to da čini,
nije htela, il' nije smela,
vrag bi joj znao.
 
Ni ono nebo, ni ono oblačje, ni one krovove,
bledunjavo sunce - izgladnelog dečaka nad Mostarom
ne umem zaboraviti,
ni njenu kosu, njen mali jezik kao jagodu,
njen smeh što je umeo zaboleti kao kletva;
onu molitvu u kapeli na Bijelom Bregu,
Bog je veliki, govorila je, nadživeće nas;
ni one teške, modre kiše,
o jesen besplodna, njena jesen...
 
Govorila je o filmovima, o Džemsu Dinu,
sve je govorila,
malo tužno, malo plačljivo o Karenjini;
govorila je Klajd Grifits ne bi umeo ni
mrava zgaziti,
smejao sam se - on je ubica, ti si dete;
ni one ulice, one prodavce poslednjeg izdanja
"Oslobođenja", ni ono grožđe polusvelo
u izlozima ne umem zaboraviti,
onu besplodnu gorku jesen nad
Mostarom,
one kiše,
ljubila me je po cele noći, grlila me
i ništa više, majke mi,
ništa drugo nismo.
 
Posle su opet bila leta, posle su opet bile kiše,
jedno jedino malo pismo iz Ljubljane,
otkuda tamo,
ni ono lišće po trotoarima, ni one dane,
ja više ne mogu, ja više ne umem
izbrisati.
 
Piše mi, pita me šta radim, kako živim,
imam li devojku,
da li ikad pomislim na nju, na onu jesen,
na one kiše,
ona je i sad, kaže, ista, kune se Bogom
potpuno ista,
da joj verujem, da se smejem
davno sam, davno, prokleo Hrista
a i do nje mi baš nije stalo,
klela se, ne klela,
mora se tako, ne vrede laži.
 
Govorio sam joj o Ljermontovu, o Šagalu,
sve sam joj govorio,
vukla je sa sobom neku staru Cvajgovu knjigu,
čitala popodne,
u kosi joj bilo zapretano leto, žutilo sunca,
malo mora,
prve joj noći i koža bila pomalo slana,
ribe zaspale u njenoj krvi;
smejali smo se dečacima što skaču
s mosta za cigarete,
smejali se jer nije leto, a oni skaču - baš su deca,
govorila je: mogu umreti, mogu dobiti upalu pluća...
 
Onda su dolazile njene ćutnje, duge, preduge,
mogao sam slobodno misliti o svemu,
razbistriti Spinozu,
sate i sate mogao sam komotno gledati
druge,
bacati oblutke dole, niz stenje,
mogao sam sasvim otići nekud, otići daleko,
mogao sam umreti onako sam u njenom krilu,
samlji od sviju,
mogao sam se pretvoriti u pticu, u vodu,
u stenu,
sve sam mogao...
 
Prste je imala dugačke, krhke, beskrvne a hitre,
igrali smo se buba-mara i skrivalice,
Svetlana izađi, eto te pod stenom,
nisam valjda ćorav,
nisam ja blesav, hajde, šta se kaniš,
dobićeš batine;
kad je ona tražila - mogao sam pobeći
u samu reku - našla bi me,
namiriše me, kaže, odmah,
pozna me dobro.
Nisam joj nikad verovao,
valjda je stalno ćurila kroz prste.
Volela je kestenje, kupili smo ga po Rondou,
nosila ga u sobu, vešala o končiće,
volela je ruže, one jesenje, ja sam joj donosio,
kad svenu stavljala ih je u neku kutiju.
 
Pitao sam je šta misli o ovom svetu,
veruje li u komunizam, da li bi se menjala
za Natašu Rostovu, svašta sam je pitao,
ponekad glupo, znam ja to i te kako;
pitao sam je da li bi volela malog sina,
recimo plavog,
skakala je od ushićenja - hoće, hoće,
a onda, najednom, padala je u neke tuge
ko mrtvo voće:
ne sme i ne sme, vidi ti njega, kao da je ona
pala s Jupitera,
ko je to, recimo, Zubac Pera, pa da baš on
a ne neko drugi,
taman posla, kao da je on u najmanju ruku
Brando ili takvi.
 
Govorio sam joj ti si glupa, ti si pametna,
ti si đavo, ti si anđeo,
sve sam joj govorio.
Ništa mi nije verovala.
Vi ste muškarci rođeni lažovi,
vi ste hulje,
svašta je govorila.
A padale su nad Mostarom neke modre kiše...
 
Stvarno sam voleo tu Svetlanu
jedne jeseni,
jao, kad bih znao sa kim sada spava,
ne bi mu glava, ne bi mu glava,
jao, kad bih znao ko je sada ljubi,
ne bi mu zubi, ne bi mu zubi,
jao, kad bih znao ko to u meni
bere kajsije, još nedozrele.
 
Поставио/ла: orozoroz У: Субота, 12/12/2009 - 23:04
Last edited by Miley_LovatoMiley_Lovato on Уторак, 02/06/2015 - 22:49
превод на енглескиенглески
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Mostar rains

Mostar rains
 
In Mostar I loved some Svetlana one fall,
oh if I knew who she sleeps with now,
heads would fly, heads would fly
oh if knew who is kissing her now
I'd knock his teeth out, I'd knock his teeth out,
oh if I knew who in me picks this apricot fruit
before it's ripe.
 
I used to tell her you're a brat, you're a snotty girl,
All kinds of things I told her
She cried over my hands, my words,
I told her you're an angel, you're a devil,
your body ripe, why must you act a saint,
and whole night long some deep blue rains fell
over Mostar.
 
There was no sunshine, no birds, nothing.
She asked me if I had a brother, what do I study,
If I'm Croatian, do I like Rilke,
All kinds of things she asked me.
She asked me if I could be like this with any girl
God forbid,
do I love her, she asked me softly,
and there kept falling over Mostar deep blue rains,
she was alabaster white in the dusk of my room,
but she wouldn't do it,
didn't want to, or was afraid
devil may know.
 
It was fall, this dead fall on the window panes,
her eyes like a bird, hips like a doe,
she had a mole, mole she had
I can't say
I think she had a mole, tiny purple one
I could be wrong.
 
She asked me if I was a Croat, did I have a girl,
Do I like Rilke - all kinds of things she asked me
and on the window panes, like Christmas bells of my childhood,
rang the drops of rain.
Evening song drifted gently down Lower Mahala
'Eh Sulejman raised by his widowed mother'.
 
She strew her years over the parquet floor,
her lips were full like ripest apricots,
her breast warm like puppy dogs,
I would tell her that she's stupid, and vain
Svetlana, Svetlana, don't you know this is the atomic age
De Gaull, Gagarin and other nonsense,
all kinds of things I told her
she cried, and cried.
 
I took her around Kujundžiluk and aščinicas,
everywhere I took her,
hid her away in caves, to old grain sheds I carried her,
under the bridges we played, Neretva the mare,
under the old bridge I recited Crnjanski for her,
so beautiful, she whispered, so beautiful.
 
I would draw her knees in the sand,
she laughed so bright, so innocent,
like first lilies,
I took her to mosques, Karađoz-beg dead, too dead
under the heavy burden of the turbet.
to the grave of Šantić she took flowers,
she cried a little, as women always do,
everywhere I took her.
 
Now is some summer, I'm someone completely different
I write poems,
in one journal half a paragraph for Pero Zubac
nothing more,
back then all night over Mostar some
deep blue rains were falling,
she was alabaster white in the dusk of my room,
but she wouldn't do it
didn't want to or was afraid
devil may know.
 
Not this sky, not those clouds, not those roofs,
palish sun - like a starving boy over Mostar
I can't forget,
her hair, her tiny tongue like a strawberry,
her laugh that could hurt like a curse;
that prayer in the chapel on Bijeli Brijeg,
God is great, she said, he'll outlast us;
nor those heavy, deep blue rains,
oh autumn fruitless, her autumn...
 
She spoke about the movies, about James Dean,
all kinds of things she spoke,
a bit sad, a bit weepy about Karenjina,
she would say, Clyde Griffiths wouldn't hurt an ant,
I laughed, - he's a murderer, you child;
neither those streets, those shopkeepers with the last
issue of "Oslobođenje", nor those half withered grapes
in the showcases I can't forget,
that barren bitter autumn over
Mostar,
those rains,
she kissed me all through the night, she hugged me
and nothing more, I swear on my mother,
we did nothing more.
 
Later there were summers, then again rains,
one little tiny letter from Ljubljana,
how did she end up there,
those leaves on the sidewalks, those days,
I no longer can, I no longer know how,
to erase.
 
She writes to me, says what I'm I doing, how do I live,
do I have a girlfriend,
do I ever think about her, and that fall,
those rains,
she is even now, she says, the same, swears to God
completely the same,
should I believe her, should I laugh
long, long time ago I've forsaken Christ
and for her I don't even really care any more,
she swore, and swore,
that's how it goes, what do I gain from lies.
 
I told her about Ljermontov, and Chagall,
all kinds of things I told her,
she dragged around some old book by Zweig,
read in the afternoon,
in her hair was entangled summer, gold of sun,
a bit of sea,
first night even her skin was a bit salty,
fish fell asleep in her blood;
we laughed at the boys that jumped
off the bridge for a pack of cigarettes,
we laughed because it wasn't even summer and they jumped - those juveniles,
she told me: they could die, they could get pneumonia...
 
Then came her long silence, long, too long,
I could think of everything in peace,
clarify Spinoza,
hours after hours I could comfortably watch,
others,
I could throw boulders down, over cliffs,
I could go away somewhere, go far,
I could have died alone in her lap,
loneliest of all,
I could have turned into a bird, water,
a rock,
all kind of things I could have...
 
Her fingers she had long, fragile, pale and swift,
we played lady bug and hide and seek,
Svetlana come out, there you are behind the rock,
I'm not blind,
I'm not stupid, come, give it up,
you'll get a beating;
when she was searching - I could dive
to the bottom of the river - she would find me,
she smells me, she said, at once,
she knows me well
I didn't believe her,
I guess she peaked always through her fingers.
She loved chestnuts, we bought them at the Rondo,
she carried them with her to her room, strung them on a string,
she loved roses, autumn roses, I brought her,
when they wither she puts them in a box.
 
I asked her what she thought about this world,
does she believe in communism, would she change
about Nataša Rostova all kinds of things I asked her,
sometimes stupid, I know too well;
I asked her if she wants a little son,
let's say blond,
she jumped for joy, yes, yes she does
and then, all of a sudden, she fell into sadness
still nature:
she can't, and that's it, look at this guy,
as if she fell from Jupiter,
and who is this, Zubac Pera, that he would be the one
and no one else,
give me a break, was he nothing less
than Brando or what.
 
I told her you're dumb, you're smart,
you're the devil, you're the angel,
all kind of things I told her.
She didn't believe a thing.
You men are born liars she said,
you're crooks,
all kind of things she said.
and kept falling over Mostar those deep blue rains...
 
I really loved this Svetlana
this one fall,
oh if I knew who she sleeps with now,
heads would fly, heads would fly
oh if knew who is kissing her now
I'd knock his teeth out, I'd knock his teeth out
oh if I knew who in me picks those apricots
before it's ripe.
 
Поставио/ла: orozoroz У: Субота, 12/12/2009 - 23:17
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