LyricsTranslations

Epilog

Vodopad ima bradu kao grof L.N.Tolstoj.
To se
u stvari
Jutro po sebi peni i razapinje dugu.
Ja sam priznao jednoj ženi
Da je život nešto prosto u meni,
– a nije baš tako prosto.
Ja sam mislio da cu ići pravo
dok se ne pretvorim u lenjir,
a našli su me u krugu.

Našli su me posle lutanja
srozanog od vriska do šaputanja.
Prošao je oktobar.
Među nogama drveća polako zaudara na vlagu
i krv.
Ulica poslednji put kisne na sirovom suncu.

Sedite malo kraj mene kao kraj groba.
Minut pošte za moje preminulo najrumenije doba.
Sedite malo kraj mene
Vidite: opet sam dobar.
Iza uha mi se okoreo mlaz usirenog poraza
kao streljanom vojnom beguncu.

Proletele su ogromne zlatne kočije
kroz naše utrnule oči,
– a mi ih sačuvali nismo.
Nešto mlado nam je rzalo na usni i uvelo
Gorko od smeha i slatko do plača.
Dozvolite mi da posle svega
dalekoj nekoj gospođici napišem jedno pismo,
onako malo nostalgično
kao što pišu senilni penzionisani admirali
preživeloj posadi sa potopljenog razarača.

Gospođice,
kazaću,
gospođice,
sve je,
sve je,
sve je gotovo.
Ovde cveće pokojno
prodaju razliveno u parfemske flaše.
I sve je,
sve je,
sve je spokojno
kao da vetar nikad nije šamarao drvored
i po oknu se pleo.

Gospođice,
kazaću,
u ovu jesen,
frigidnu kao turistkinja sa skandinavskim pasošem,
to što sam odjednom sed ne znači da sam beo.

Ti si jedina nahranila svu moju glad
sa ono malo mesa i sna.
Jedina si bila sita od ono malo mojih noktiju
i dlanova.
Voleo bih da tvoji budući sinovi naslede boju moga glasa
i kćeri nose moju tugu u prslučićima od svile.
Voelo bih da sačuvaš moje najdivnije vrhove
na horizontalama tvog dna
i proneseš moje oči kroz tišinu tuđih očiju
i stanova,
i moj oktobar kroz sve tuđe aprile.

Ovo nije ispovest.
Ovo je gore nego molitva.

Hiljadu puta od jutros kao nekad te volim.
Hiljadu puta od jutros ponovo ti se vraćam. Hiljadu puta ponovo se plašim
za tebe izgubljenu u vrtlogu geografskih karata,
za tebe podeljenu kao plakat ko zna kakvim ljudima.

Da li sam još uvek ona mera po kojoj znaš ko te boli
i koliko su pred tobom svi drugi bili goli, ona mera po kojoj znaš ko te otima
i ko te plaća?
Da li sam još uvek među svim tvojim životima
onaj komadić najplavijeg oblaka u grudima
i najkrvavijeg saća?

Ovde kod mene
dani imaju ukus piva i dosade.
Ponekad kaplju kiše
čudno,
spokojno.
Nemam volje ni da živim ni da se ubijem.
Sasvim sam nalik na lađu koja luta bez posade
i ne želi da zbriše
sa svoga oka nešto uzaludno,
nešto pokojno,
nešto golubije.

Možda je dobro da znaš:
posle tebe žene nemaju pravo ništa da uobražavaju. Nekad prvi žutokljunac republike,
danas – mogu da podignem zarozane čarape
lično bogorodici
u dostojanstvo prerušen.

Sve moje nežnosti još uvek na tvom pragu spavaju
kao mali žuti psi
na mokrim,
nabreklim,
crnim sisama gospođe keruše.
Sasvim sam zakopčan od sluzokože do duše.
Ova 32 zuba još uvek ljubav samo za tebe onako jecaju
i onako pevuše.

Ti me svakako razumeš:
sve je,
sve je
sve je gotovo.
Uplašeno sam pijan
i prazan
i sam.
Ponekad neko naiđe da me zabrinuto voli i pazi,
neko kome otkrivam sve tvoje putokaze
do mog usijanog temena.
Nikome nemoj reći
ali ja,
koji najmanje znam o sreći,
hteo bih malo nespretne sreće tom nekom novom da dam
i dok umire drveće i vetar po lišću gazi
hteo bih da mu bude dobro u ime izvesnog aorista moje ljubavi
i davnoprošlog vremena.

Možda nećeš verovati:
i sa hotelima sam raskrstio sasvim neopaženo.
Sve mi hoteli nekako liče na istu bajku
i postelje u sobama smeškaju se na isti glas.
Svi se portiri na isti način brinu
onako malo rodački kad im laku noć kažemo.
Svi se portiri isto onako brinu,
majke mi,
kao da znaju za nas.

Dalje ne bih imao ništa više da ti javim.
Pijana od hladnoće subotnja noć se valja.
Satovi su već odavno povečerje odsvirali.

Dalje zaista ne bih imao ništa više da ti javim
jedino možda to da si ostala najlepša medalja
iz najlepšeg rata u kome su mi srce amputirali.

Gospođice,
ja nisam za tobom bio onako obično,
gimnazijski zanesen.
U meni je sve do tabana minirano.

Inače,
zapamtio sam:
ljubav je najgolubija samo u onim kricima
koji se poklone prvima.
Dozvoli da se zato zbog nečeg u sebi
nasmešim u ovu jesen
pomalo krišom,
kroz suze,
pomalo demodirano,
ja, tvoj najnežniji pastuv medu pesnicima,
ja, tvoj najsuroviji pesnik medu pastuvima.

Translation

Epilogue

The waterfall has beard like L.N.Tolstoj.
That’s
actually
the morning, foaming itself and unfurling the rainbow
I’ve confessed to a woman
That life is something simple inside of me,
– but it’s not all that simple.
I thought I’d go straight
until I turn into a ruler,
but they’ve found me in a circle.

They’d found me after roaming
fallen from screaming to whispering.
October is gone.
Between trees’ legs it slowly begins to smell of moisture
and blood.
The street is getting wet, for the last time, in the raw sun.

Sit beside me for a minute, like next to a grave.
A minute of silence for my deceased rosiest ages.
Sit beside me for a minute
You see: I’m good again.
Behind my ear, there’s a hardened shaft of curdled defeat
like on an executed deserter.

A great gold carriage has flown
through our numb eyes,
– and we haven’t saved it.
Something young neighed on our lips and withered
Bitter from laughing and sweet from crying.
After all, allow me to
write a letter to a distant young lady,
just a bit nostalgic,
the way that senile retired admirals write
to the surviving crew of a sunk destroyer.

Miss,
I’ll say,
Miss,
it’s all,
it’s all,
it’s all over.
In this place, dead flowers
are sold poured into perfume bottles.
And everything is,
everything is,
everything is peaceful
as if the wind never slapped the row of trees
and meddled with the window.

Miss,
I will say,
this Autumn,
as frigid as a tourist with a Scandinavian passport,
the fact that I’m suddenly gray, doesn’t mean that I’m white.

You were the only one to completely feed my hunger
with the little flesh and dream.
Only you were satiated by the little of my nails
and palms.
I wish your future sons would inherit the tone of my voice
and your daughters would carry my sadness in silk vests.
I wish you’d save my most splendid heights
on the horizontals of your worst
and that you’d carry my eyes through the silence of strange eyes
and apartments,
and my October through all strange Aprils.

This is not a confession.
This is worse than a prayer.

One thousand times since this morning, I love you like in the old times.
One thousand times since this morning, I’m coming back to you. One thousand times I’m, again, worried
about you, lost in the whirlpool of geographic maps,
about you, handed out like posters to who knows what kind of people.

Am I still the unit by which you define who hurts you
and how naked the others were before you, the unit by which you know who’s grabbing you
and who’s paying you?
Am I still among all those lives of yours
the little piece of the bluest sky in your chest
and of the bloodiest honeycomb?

Here, where I am
the days taste like beer and boredom.
Rain sometimes drops
strangely,
serene.
I have no will neither to live nor to kill myself.
I’m completely like a boat that wanders around with no crew
and doesn’t want to erase,
from his eye, something vain,
something deceased,
something tender.

Maybe it’s good for you to know:
after you, women have no right to imagine anything. Once upon a time – the first novice in the republic,
today – I can lift dropped socks
to the mother of God herself
disguised in dignity.

All of my tenderness still sleeps at your doorstep
like the little yellow dogs
on wet,
swollen,
black tits of Mrs Bitch.
I’m completely indrawn, from mucous membrane to the soul.
These 32 teeth still sob love only for you, like they used to
and still hum the same way.

You surely understand me:
it’s all,
it’s all
it’s all over.
I’m shuddery drunk
and empty
and alone.
Sometimes someone comes along to love me and take care of me,
someone to whom I show all of your road signs
leading to my hothead.
Don’t ever tell anyone
but I,
being the one to know the least about happiness,
would like to give a bit of clumsy happiness to that someone new
and while the trees are dying and the wind is stepping on the leaves
I’d like that someone to feel good in the name of a certain aorist of my love
and of the past perfect tense.

Maybe you wont believe it:
I’m done with hotels and didn’t even notice.
All hotels somehow have the same story
and beds in the rooms smile at me in the same way.
All the doormen worry in the same way
a bit friendly when we tell them goodnight.
All the doormen worry in that same way,
I swear,
as if they know about us.

There’s nothing more I’d like to tell you
Drunk from coldness, the Saturday night stumbles around.
The clocks have, long ago, played taps.

There’s really nothing further I’d like to tell you
maybe only that you’re still the most beautiful medal
from the most beautiful war in which they amputated my heart.

Miss,
I wasn’t just ordinarily,
in a high school kind of way, infatuated
Everything inside me, down to my soles, was mined.

By the way,
I’ve remembered:
love is the sweetest only in the cries
given to the first ones.
Therefore, allow me to smile
this Autumn, because of something inside me,
a bit secretly
through tears,
a bit out of style
me, your most gentle stallion among poets,
me, your most ruthless poet among stallions.