A Prayer / Molitva

Oh Lord, have mercy on those who have power,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to become oppressors.


Oh Lord, have mercy on the rich,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to become dissipated.


Oh Lord, have mercy on the poor,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to succumb to despair.


Oh Lord, have mercy on those who have world knowledge,
Three times I pray,
Because they are in danger to worship themselves,
And make You fade away.



MOLITVA


Gospode, pomiluj one koji su na vlasti,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da postanu nasilnici;

Gospode, pomiluj one koji su u bogatstvu,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da postanu raskalašni;

Gosode, pomilu siromahe,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da padnu u očajanje;

Gospode, pomiluj one koji su sa svetskim znanjem,
Tri put Ti se molim,
Jer su u opasnosti da sebe obogotvore
i Tebe zaborave.

Rocks

Today I have been so cheerful.

But now I hardly breathe,

and my smile is hazy, weary.

Far away, somewhere beyond the Scottish shore,

blue rocks rise from the very sea,

so enormous, so lonely, so dreary.

I remember them. I see them now.

Their blue color entangles my soul.

A horrible shudder comes over me,

also an endless sorrow.


Miloš Crnjanski

Sumatra

Carefree, light and gentle,

we think: how silent the snow-covered

peaks of the Urals are.

If sad because of a pale face

lost one night,

we know that, instead, somewhere,

a stream flows with colour!

At least one love, one morning, far away,

enveloped our soul, tighter and tighter,

with the fathomless peace of the blue seas,

shimmering beads of coral, red,

like cherries at home.

We wake in the night, smile, tenderly,

at the Moon with a strung bow,

and we caress distant hills

and mountains to ice, softly, with our hand.


Miloš Crnjanski

A Hand / Ruka

Heavy, full of bony sawdust,

an old hand lies in a lap.

Outlined on it are

a blue branch of veins

and an alphabet of wrinkles, entangled.

Only when lifted to the back of a child's head,

it enlightens and enlivens

like a watered plant,

the poison and the fatigue drain out of the veins,

the sawdust of bones is joined,

a joint lies in a joint.

But as soon as the child leaves,

the hand drops again

and falls into the lap.


* * * *

Teška, puna koštanih opiljaka,
leži u krilu staračka ruka.
Na njoj je ocrtana
modra grana vena
i azbuka bora, zamršena.

Tek kad se digne detetu do zatiljka,
zasvetli se i prene
kao zalivena biljka,
otoči se otrov i umor iz vena,
opiljci kostiju se spoje,
legne zglob u zglob.


A čim dete ode,
ruka opet klone
i padne u krilo
kao u grob.



Desanka Maksimović

For Lies Spoken out of Kindness / Za laži izgovorene iz milosrđa

I seek mercy

for those who lack the courage

to tell the evil one that he is evil

or the bad one that he is bad,

for those who hesitate

to hurt with the truth,

for the people who lie out of kindness.

For the man who would rather be humiliated

than humiliate,

for the man who has no heart

to pull down a mask when he sees it

on someone's face,

for people who cannot insult

those of different thoughts and creeds,

for those who never could

pronounce a sentence to others,

for whom all judges seem strict,

for every kind untruthful story

and other similar weaknesses.


* * *


Tražim pomilovanje
za one koji nemaju snage
zlome kazati da je zao
niti rđavome de je rđav,
za onoga kome je žao
čoveka istinom unesrećiti,
za ljude koji lažu iz milosrđa.
Za čoveka koji će ponižen biti
radije nego koga da ponizi,
za onoga koji i kad nazre
obrazinu kome na licu
nema srca da je zdere,
za ljude koji ne mogu da uvrede
ni čoveka druge misli i vere,
za one koji nikad ne bi mogli
drugome presudu da izriču,
kojima se sve sudije čine stroge,
za svaku milosrdnu lažnu priču
i slične njima slabosti mnoge.



Desanka Maksimović

For All Mary Magdalenes

I seek mercy

for the women stoned

and their accomplice - the darkness of the night,

for the scent of clover and the branches

on which they fell intoxicated

like quails and woodcocks,

for their scorned lives,

for their love torments

unrelieved by compassion.

I seek mercy

for the moonlight and for the rubies

on their skin,

for the moonlight's dusk,

for the showers of their undone hair,

for the handful of silvery branches,

for their loves naked

and damned -

for all Mary Magdalenes.


Desanka Maksimović

Sea without Poets

You wait for a moment to adapt yourself to wards

But there is no such poet

Nor a world fully free

O bitter and blind sea

In love with shipwreck


Branko Miljković

In Vain I Wake Her

I wake her for the sun self-explained by plants

for the sky strung between fingers

I wake her for the words that burn throat

I love her with my ears

You have to go to the world's end and find a dew on grass

I wake her for far away things that resemble these

for people who frontless and nameless pass down the street

for anonymous words of city squares I wake her

for the manufactured landscapes of public parks

I wake her for this planet of ours that will perhaps

be a mine in a bleeding sky

for the smile in stone of comredes asleep between two battles

When the sky was no longer a big bird cage

but an aerodrome

my love full of others is part of the dawn

I wake her for the dawn for love for myself for others

I wake her though this is more vain than calling

a bird that alighted forever

she surely said: let him look for me and see I'm not there

this woman with the hands of a child whom I love

this child asleep without having dried her tears that I'm waking

in vain in vain in vain

in vain I wake her

for she will awake different and new

in vain I wake her

for her lips will fail to tell her

in vain I wake her

you know what flows but it does not speak

in vain I wake her

you have to promise a lost name someone's face in the sand


Branko Miljković

An Evening on the Isles

The blue wide deep

is asleep,

Cool and silent falls the night.

On a dark sea rock, dying fast,

Is the last

Scarlet ray of evening light.

The church bell tolls,

With doleful moans

The rocky hills resound.

With sighs of sadness, unending,

Heads bending,

Kneeling on the ground.

The poor folk, meagre

And eager,

Pray before their God;

They beg, but not a word

Is heard

From the crucified Lord.

The nearing repose

Is close,

Cool and silent falls the night;

On a dark sea rock, dying fast,

Is the last

Scarlet ray of evening light.


Aleksa Šantić

Tension / Napon

A germ cried out: I want to sprout

out of darkness, up to height.

From split chest I will hoist

the most beautiful hymn of the sun.

A wing cried out: to be born

out of terrible blood torment

on calm stars to sail (I want)

to be the first on the sun.

A tear cried out: oh, to drop

out of pain that sob!

I'll bring into the world, when I fall,

the first rumor of human's soul.


* * *

NAPON

Zavapi klica: želim nići

Iz mraka, do vrhunca!

Iz prslih grudi ja ću dići

Najlepšu himnu sunca.

Zavapi krilo: da se rodim,

Iz strašnog mučenja krvi!

Zvezdama mirnim da zabrodim,

Na sunce da stignem prvi.

Zavapi suza: vaj, da kanem

Iz bola koji grca!

Doneću na svet, kada panem

Prvu vest ljudskog srca.



Jovan Dučić

Sunset / Zalazak sunca

The sky, like copper in the furnace, shines,

The river crimsons in the evening glow;

And now, from that dark wood of ancient pines

Does not a stealthy flame begin to show?

And listen - somewhere in the distance, turns

The waterwheel, with droning hoarse and deep;

But while the heaven above the valley burns,

The mayfly on the water lies asleep.

Another evening!...in my mind I see

Beyond three oceans, in some land afar,

In the first hush of sunset, mournfully

Sitting, where shadowy emerald mountains are,

Pale as Desire, a woman I do not know,

Thinking of me, and crowned, and shining bright;

Heavy, perpetual, boundless in her woe,

There, on the verge of stillness, gloom, and night.

Before the garden lies the sea outspread;

The dark-blue gulls fly off, a scattered throng,

And in the rosebush, withered now and dead,

Once more the wind is murmuring its sad song;

And two huge sphinxes face the golden sky

And keep their mute and voiceless watch, while she

Weeps, and the tired sun slowly from on high

Sinks down behind the vast and spacious sea.

To me her name, her features, are unknown;

Yet, standing here, I fill her every thought;

For those pale lips declare true faith alone,

Faith mighty as death, as love that hopes for naught.

- Ah, never tell me it's not so, nor say

That my poor heart on lies itself hath fed;

For I should weep, for ever and a day;

No never again should I be comforted!


* * * * *

ZALAZAK SUNCA

Još bakarno nebo raspaljeno sija,

i crveni reka od večernjeg žara;

još podmukli požar kao da izbija

iz crne šume starih četinara.

Negde daleko čuje se gde hukti

vodenički točak promuklijem glasom

al' nad dolinama dok još nebo bukti,

cvet vodeni već je zaspo nad talasom.

Opet jedno veče...I meni se čini,

negde daleko, preko triju mora,

pri zalasku sunca, u prvoj tišini,

tužna u senci smaragdovih gora

- bleda kao čežnja, nepoznata žene,

s krunom i u sjaju, sedi, misleć na me...

teška je, beskrajna večna tuga njena

na domaku noći, tišine i tame.

Pred vrtovima okean se pruža,

razleće se modro jato galebova;

šumori vetar tužnu pesmu snova.

Dva grdna Sfinksa prema nebu zlatnom

stražare nemo i bezglasno tako,

dok ona plače...A za morskim platnom

umorno sunce zalazi polako.

I ja kom ne zna imena ni lica

sve njene misli ispunjavam tade.

Vernost joj zbori sa bledih usnica,

silna kao smrt, k'o ljubav bez nade...

Ah! ne reci mi nikad: nije tako,

ni moje srce da to laže sebi;

jer ja bih plak'o, ja bih večno plak'o

i nikad se utešio ne bi'.

Jovan Dučić

Signs by the Road / Znakovi pored puta

I knew a man who managed to find an evil word for whatever thing he didn't have, or couldn't understand. So long as a man is the prey of his passions, a slave to his sense, and the plaything of his imagination, any secret torment or bitterness he feels is easier to understand and to bear, because it is deserved, and seems the natural consequence of a flawed existence. But later on, when he has mastered his selfishness, and is wholly given over to work and able to live for others, yet still espies that same bitterness at the end of every path - then, truly, a man does not know what to think, and he has nothing left to hope for. There remains at moments just one shining hope, as fleeting as lightning, that all this is not true reality; the thought that we will wake up, groaning.

IVO ANDRIĆ

Story about a Strong-one

On the very same chain, firmly joined by hands and neck, there were two convicts, a strong one and a weak one. The weak one thought about slavery and was gloomy, and the strong one thought about freedom and was cheerful. Several times, the strong one wanted, by one strain, to break irons and run away, but that was choking, bleeding, killing the weak one.

One night, the strong one was keeping vigil. He was thinking about his hills, where, before long, he walked, powerful and fierce like nature; where wild boars were afraid of him; where he went to eagles' nests, and, with bloody hands, choked old ones and stole young ones; and from where he tore down stones, aiming to hear their death in abysses; and where he lived powerful, unbridled and noisy, like waterfall.

The night was dark and guard fell asleep. Irresistible illusion of freedom filled up his cruel spirit. Irons strained and broke. He rushed over his drowned companion, over guard, through meadows with black grass, in the river with black water, to which he threw himself like young, passionate beast; and reached the free shore. In back of his hills, has risen the large, bloody, midnight moon.

Nature has welcome him with smile, with joy, with spread arms, with blessing. Because nature doesn't know about justice, but of force.

Jovan Dučić

Poetry in Prose - "Blue Legends"

Sun

He was born at Ionian Sea, at seacoasts full of sun, dark gardens, and pale statues, and like a sea gull, he bathed in azure, light and fragrance of permanent warmed waters. His mother often carried him through cool shades of some trees which leaves smelled of dream.

Unlucky poet! When he was a child he went to a country where the sky is pale and icy, the sun is white and cold, and through those seacoasts winds cry. And one thought, like a wound, warned him eternally to his sunny seacoast, dark gardens and calm statues. Together with waves and winds, he wept bitterly and brokenhearted on the strand of melancholic unfamiliar sea.

But, when his hair, blond like faded leaves, became white; when his passionate and nice eyes, that once had a colour of branches of winter lemon or shallow sea, became unclear; when in his veins he felt the winter without its spring, Destiny brought him back again to Ionia.

There everything was like it was before. But He wasn't the same anymore: and sunny seacoasts of joyful and passionate Ionian Sea he couldn't recognize! Painful, he closed his eyes tightly, and looked inside himself. And, look! there he saw that former sun, that amazing and enormous sun that once made everything around him alive - leaves that had the smell of dream, and that he could see the white and cool blood of statues flowing through calm stone, and made him live and suffer the deep and huge passion of men.

It was the Sun of Youth that passed, the sun that shined still only deep in evening's twilight of one's soul and that gave, to everything that it illuminated, the strange and magic beauty of Illusion.

Because, things have the appearance that our soul gives them.

Jovan Dučić

Poetry in Prose - "Blue Legends"