reči / words

Te noći kad smo se sreli,
Posle tako puno vremena,
Sve je bilo sjajno,
Složili smo se da volimo istu muziku, filmove i boje,
Da ne volimo žvake, i prostake što ih žvaću otvorenih usta,
I da nam je oboma drago što smo se ponovo sreli,
Bili smo sigurni, sledećeg jutra,
Da je svanuo samo naš dan,
Duži i lepši od prethodnih...
A prošle su stotine dana,
Dok nismo shvatili,
Da sunce sija samo za sebe,
I da reči ne znače ništa,
Kada ode onaj ko ih je izgovorio.
That night, when we met again,
After a long time,
Everything was great,
We agreed that we love the same music, movies and colors,
That we don't like gums, and those who chew them open-mouthed,
And that we are really happy to meet again,
We were sure, the next morning,
That our day has arrived,
Longer and nicer than the previous ones...
But hundreds of days passed,
Before we realized,
That the Sun is shining just for itself,
And that words mean nothing,
When the one who said them has left.

Коментари

Постави коментар

Популарни постови са овог блога

trag / a trace / la huella

u srbiji, gde vreme stoji, ali nas izjeda neminovno, u duhu ratnika koji se bori za još jedan lep dan, pišem po pesmu za svako jutro u kome sam se probudio siguran da nisam samo sena i pepeo, misleći, bar u tom kratkom trenu zanosa, da moj strah, patos, ali i nada mogu nadživeti vreme koje kuca iz mraka sobe. in serbia, where time is arrested, but destroys us inevitably, like a warrior fighting for another nice day, i write a poem for every morning that wakes me assured that i'm not only of shade and ashes, thinking, at least for a short moment, that my fear, suffering and hope can outlast time ticking from the dark of the room. en Serbia, donde el tiempo no pasa, pero nos devora inevitablemente en el espirifu de un soldado que lucha por un dia mas escribo un poema para cada manana en la que me despierto convecido que soy algo mas de la sombra y ceniza, pensando por lo menos en aquel instante de entusiasmo, que mi miedo, sufrimiento, pero mi esperanza tambien, pueden sobrevivir el ...
Прикажи све

bezimena / unknown

zarobiću tvoj osmeh, ( ti ga shvataš olako, a mene bi mogao spasti, ) uhvatiću te za ruke, odvesti daleko, i kao metalni novčić vrteću te međ' prstima dok ne posiviš... I'll catch your smile ( you wear it like something common, for me it could mean everything, ) I will take your hands, and lead you far away, like a coin, I'll roll you within fingers, till you lose your color...
Прикажи све

pesnik / a poet / el poeta

Bio je krvav, ali nije plakao. Samo je mahao krhkim nožicama želevši da poleti. Mali, bespomoćni čovek u rukama belog doktora. Raširio mu je noge, kao što radi piletu, nedeljom na ručku, i doneo presudu: - Vaše dete je pesnik. - O ne! - Rekao je otac. He was bloody, but didn't weep,  Waving his feet like he wants to fly, Small, helpless man in doctor's hands. The white man spread his little legs, as he would to a chicken, and pasted the verdict: - Your child is a poet. - Oh, no - Father said. Estaba sangriento, pero no lloraba. Solo hacia senas con sus piernitas fragiles deseando volar. Ese hombre tan pequeno y desamparado en los manos del doctor. El desjunto sus piernas como a un pollo, y dijo su sentencia: - Su nino es un poeta. - Ay no! - Dijo el papa.
Прикажи све