Pjesme

When you wake in early morningand the dawn in gold is dressed,so our day may be more lovely,come and lie upon my breast!

When I come home tired and wearyand my soul yearns for its nest,so my heart may find its gladness,come and lie upon my breast!

When the flower of youth has fadedand old age steals in, a guest,so you'll find love as a woman,come and lie upon my breast!

When the children grow and leave usand harsh life has you distressed,so your pain may find its comfort,come and lie upon my breast!

When the days of age are comingand a nightmare breaks your rest,so your old and weary soul may find repose,come and lie upon my breast!

When at last that time is comingand fate puts our past to the test,so you may shed a warm tear from your eye,come and lie upon my breast!

Why is man not like a childin the pureness of his heart?Why do some, when they are grown,tear man's virtues all apart?

Why is man not like a childthat will share its crust of bread with all its friends?Why do many want earth's richesonly for their selfish ends?

Why is man not like a childin his honesty and toil?Why are some like beasts of prey,grasping, snatching, greedy for the spoil?

Why is man not like a childwhose gaze bathes in dewdrops, fresh and clear?Why, by all he does, must hebring pain, want and sorrow here?

Why is man not like a childthat brings springtime with its smile?Why does he crush the lives of other men,scything them in dirty wars so vile?

Why is man not like a childthat must mind its manners, be polite?Why does man seek his prestigein atomic weapons' might?

Why is man not like a childthat pays no heed to someone's birth or race?Why do many, once they're grown,rank mankind by class and place?

When I was lying in my mother's womb,I never had it better there. Until,without so much as asking what I wished,they bore me into life against my will.

They fed me as and when it pleased them best,they bounced me up and down with all their skill,they played with me as cats play with a mouse:and once again, I say, against my will.

When I could stand at last on my own feet,I thought that things would now improve — until,to school again, and every single day,they chased me off, and all against my will.

Then youth arrived, and love along with it:could anything be better? What a thrill!I'd barely started on the bećar's life:the army called me up against my will.

I gave my lovely youth to army life;they sent me home at harvest time; and stillI hadn't had my fill of courting girls:they married me, and that without my will.

On chilly nights the snow would flurry down;a wife beats any stove against the chill.I loved with passion through the long, long nights:the children came, and that without my will.

So that our house be full of everything,and that my children's lot be better still,just like a donkey I would pull and drag:believe me, friends, against my very will.

My wife, her mother too, will often stingme with their tongues, like wasps, so sharp and shrill;I'd gladly give a good loud shout at them,but hold my tongue, although against my will.

The years have done their work, as years must do;my spine is bent, and bends down lower still.Of life there's nothing left but memory:it all went by, and quite against my will.

Old age has slowly come to me as well;if only I were not so often ill!Now I await the blessed joys of heaven —believe me, friends, against my very will.

Of summers I have counted many a score,through all the stages life has held in store;and so I often turn to God in prayerthat He may find a place for me up there.

Shall I too, O God, to heaven go?I truly wish it, yet I live in fear.In heaven there'll be glory, splendour's glow,and my good name with You is poor down here.

Perhaps there is some corner, not too big,and that, O God, would be enough for me.I'll squeeze in there, as thin as a dry twig:my aged shoulder's narrow as can be.

I'll make no trouble, cause no one distress,and all, O God, would pass without a show.I beg You, don't forget me, nonetheless,for heaven's dear to everyone below.

If You don't care for me, if that's the case,so old a ragged wretch, so poor as I,then let me wait at least a little spacefor my poor old acquaintance to come by,

to tell him that for me he ought to pray,so heaven might receive me better still,and I'll wait on without a pang, and stay,though it should even be against my will.

And when they've entered, those You've granted grace,I know that I'll be lucky by and by,and You will give me, too, a little place,because Your heart is bigger than the sky!

I lived my youth with you, in happiness, my boy.You slept, my son, so often in my arms at rest;in playing with you, I would share in all your joy;and when you were in pain, I suffered, sore distressed.

You do not know it yet (and how could you have known)how mightily my whole being loves you so;but when you call a son of yours your very own,then only will you know the dread, the pain, the woe.

With you, my son, there have been many happy days,and more, the nights I lay awake in dread and fear.So never, son, oh never, never let it bethat with a wounded soul I'm carried to my bier.

Some day, when I've goneto the bliss of heaven,now and then, come round,visit where I lie.With a white carnationgrace my mound below.Sigh, and whisper softly:Here my dear one rests,my friend of long ago.

The soil where you were born gives you both love and joy,each tree, each stone, and all the gladness of a boy;no foreign land will ever give you this, no other:a stepmother will never bear the name of mother.

Whenever you're far off, nostalgia calls you near;from deep within your soul, this land's own call rings clear.Upon her own dear breast, just like a well-loved wife,she gladly takes you in: that is her part in life.

In foreign lands a bitter sorrow lies in wait;one day you will come back, if not before, then late:in old age, when your youth has withered all away,to sow your bones within her womb, and there to stay.

So love your land, and cherish her, and hold her dear;call her the dearest one, let no insult come near.She forgives all, just like the mother of your birth;you must know how to keep and guard your native earth.

My own mother used to wake meevery morning, at dawn's first trace,and with her own tears, so warm,she would wash my little face.

From injustice and from paingrief would cause her heart to break;while my stepfather's son slept,in the dark she'd make me wake.

So that my bare feet would shakethe cold dew from grassy ground,and my eye, all dimmed with tears,watch where cows grazed all around.

Meanwhile he, the older, bigger,my stepfather's darling boy,in a bed so warm and soft,dreamed his dreams of bliss and joy.

And I, little, weak, each daydreamed a dream of far away.In my fancies I was happy,but awake, I had to pay.

When a child cries in the night,waking from its dreams in fear,to find comfort for her little one,mother holds it to her bosom near.

When it hears her heart's soft beatingand its mother's warmth is there,she's the goddess of its joy and gladness,than all fairy tales more fair.

When it falls and cries in pain,to its mother fast it goes;tenderly she wipes away its tearsand with kisses heals its woes.

For each illness of her little onea mother's heart aches through and through.She would give her very eyes for it:that, a mother alone can do.

Love is giving.Love is receiving.And the more you give,the longer it will stay.But it's hard to sufferpains that are not due,and harder stillwhen they come your wayfrom one your heart loves true.

How much misery and carehave these shoulders come to know?Grey now, faded, is my hair,once dark brown, so long ago.

Painfully my limbs still go,bearing this frail frame along;weak the eyes that guide me so,yet the wish to live is strong.

Give me back, O God, my smileand the joy to marvel still;sweetest love and youth, a whilelet me live them, if you will.

What's to tell of poverty,sorrow, grief, and woe complete?While I gnawed the cornbread crust,I would watch them eating meat.

Fresh white bread, its fragrant smell,from the others drifted near;while I gnawed the cornbread crust,in my pain I shed a tear.

In my dreams I used to dreamof a fresh white slice of bread,but awake, the cornbread crustI would soak with tears instead.

As a child I did not seehow the ways of men unfold:that the cornbread crust is nevergnawed by those who have the gold.

When I saw the crookednessof the rich, the vulture kind,even that dry cornbread crustwas worth money, to my mind.

And when I grasped the difference,grown between the rich and poor,even that dry cornbread crusttasted sweeter than before.

Mother, do not wake me early,I am not yet done with sleeping.When my love comes in my dreaming,all I'd give those dreams for keeping.

Mother, do not wake me early,leave my lovely dreams unbroken:when you call my name, I fancyit's my darling who has spoken.

Mother, do not wake me early,sweetest are the dreams when day is starting;in my dreams I kiss my true loveat her window, at our parting.

Come, my beloved,when I am happy,so that my gladnessI may share with you.

Come, my darling,come into my arms,so that your sweet smilemay gladden me too.

Come to me alsowhen I am grieving,for this heart of minelongs to have you near.

Sorrow, too, is lighterwhen carried by two,if someone shares itwith a heart sincere.

I bore a son and held him tight,I nursed and cuddled my delight,kept watch and trembled through the night;in his every game,in his every smile,my heart was light.

In nineteen hundredand ninety-twothere came to the villagesoldiers in a line.Proud, by the Captain, stood that son of mine.With my eyes I saw him goand let my tears flow,tears of sorrow and of joyfor that young soldier of mine.

Then one day there camesad news from far away, which saidthat my son was dead.

As I, within my thoughts,was walking him to his last resting place,his wounds were burning me;in my aching breastI felt the bullets.

They killed my son,eighteen years beneath the sun.He fell in battle, making a stand,defending his own native land.

If only I could bringfresh flowers, a small bouquet.If only I knewwhere his body lay.

Our Lady, with all my heartI pray for help from above:help me, that I may findthe son I love.

Christmas gone, and gone the New Year, too,and Saint Valentine has hurried past;years keep piling up upon our shoulders,for, just like an arrow, life flies fast.

When I think back on my childhood daysand my youth, so happy from the start,all my life, by hundreds, Amor's arrowshave gone flying straight on through my heart.

Dear Lord, is there anything more lovelythan when two in love are joined as one,and the blood goes surging like the sea,and you don't know where your thoughts have run?

What is lovely never lasts for long,and in a moment youth had slipped away;children came and filled my house, and soall my strength went off to work each day.

Now the days of old age have dragged in,and I meet Amor less, it's not the same;yet my heart is proud, as once it was:that's a thing old age has yet to tame.

The wind has carried me down from the northto Karlobag, beside the sea so blue,to marvel there at that enormous pondand watch the way the dawn comes breaking through.

Along the blue Adriatic I've roamed,from Rovinj down to famous Split, my feethave carried me, but nowhere have I seena fairer sea than our Slavonian wheat.

The sirens' song still echoes on the air,the sea is stirred by wind, the waves resound;a lovelier song I never yet have heardthan ripened wheat-ears rustling all around.

I hate castlesand do not love towers,fortresses and villasand all the buildingswithout human warmth.I hate dungeons,hunger and violence,wars and the shedding of blood.I hate greed,all of it, without regret,and the sweet façadeof a rotten soul.I hate the glitterof human hypocrisy,wrapped in the fine garb of etiquette.

Swallow, darling bird,herald of the spring!Are you tired outfrom your lengthy flight?

How I love you, swallow!You bring luck and cheerand warm spring each year,flowers fair and bright.

Swallow, back you comewith your chirping sound;watching your warm nestfills my heart anew.

Blossom scent you spreadthrough the garden all around;to your old home groundI gladly welcome you.

When the autumn comes,my heart starts to freeze;as you fly away,you leave me sad and blue.

I'd go with you, swallow,to warm lands overseas,but I have no wingsto fly the whole world through.

The whole night's bathed in moonlight, far and wide,the evening's decked with stars across the sky;my Valpovo girl, my Jela, at my side,we watch the Karašica flowing by.

When linden scent along the lane would blow,her love my Valpovo girl would then bestow;the moon shone down on us with gentle glow,and quietly the Karašica would flow.

When night comes softly, calling us to rest,with kisses I close gently both her eyes,and wish her pleasant dreams upon my breast,for soon enough the dawn, too, will arise.

When morning roosters start their crowing cries,the dawn would carry all our dreams away;embraced, as daylight glimmers in the skies,our kisses give new strength to face the day.

When the night draws in,in an empty room,sad is every day.Hard it is to spin,when such nights begin,dreams where love holds sway.

Go, then, seek and finda companion true;never be alone.Life's more sweet, more kind,and less sorrow, too;trust me,this I've known.

Is anything more lovely than a child,a creature so tender and so small!?When clumsily it crawls beside you there,when it just coos to you, with no words at all.

I love the tamburica when its string rings high,it touches my soul when I'm leading the kolo;my heart starts to flutter to hear my dear cry:"Come into my chamber, my beloved lolo!"

I love when the lanes see the lovers go by,I love the well-sweep's creaking, the village's call,I love when the moon strolls with stars through the sky,in that moonlight I love my sweetheart best of all.

I love prela, sijela, the Šokac yarns they spin,I love the maškare, when dressed up they appear,I love all the beauty when wedding days begin,the wonderful customs still living year on year.

There are no more horses in farmyards to neigh,in their place, only tractors go droning down lanes;no young wives in the kolo now whooping away,all has fallen silent, and no sound remains.

The television has now replaced the prela,the lanes are deserted, none dances the kolo,no bećars are left now to go round the sijela.Nothing's left any more, my beloved lolo!

Once my little daughter asked me:"Tell me, Daddy, what's a tree?"Let me tell you, child of mine:first, the trunk is what you see.

That's its body, you might say,from which all its roots will sprout;and on it the branches growthat strong winds toss all about.

On the branches leaves come out,which the gentle breeze blows through,and, my child, these are its lungs:it breathes just the way you do.

When the sun of spring shines down,every tree blooms, full of grace,spreading heady scent aroundto adorn this earthly place.

Bees then pollinate the blossom,after blossom, fruit will grow,and in autumn, when it's ripened,nature has no finer show.

My childhood weighs on me, a bitter pain I've known:barefoot I walked on thorns, and did so every day;the clothes upon my back were patched and roughly sewn,while I led other people's cows where stubble lay.

Remembering it now, a chill goes through my frame.At every step I met with poverty and need;yet I have never had to hang my head in shame,for honesty to me was sacred, as a creed.

A crust of dry cornbread I gnawed on every day;that life could be much better, I could never know,yet all my life I've crawled to no one on my way:and that is how my mother taught me, long ago.

A woman passes by,leaning in pain upon a crutch.As if it tore at flesh,the crutch lets out a squeal.Down my spinethe shivers creep.There stays in my memorythat meeting I still feel.Someone mutters, low and deep,is it pleadingor a curse?Who's to know!I only seethe bloody harvestof some shell's burst.And I seethe sad emptinessgaping where a leg should go.I feltthe aching nightmareher sleep must undergo.Oh, God!A sigh breaks out,unbidden, weak.And a tear slidesdown my cheek.

O Slavonia, land so proud and fair,somewhat flat, and hilly here and there,decked in golden ears of wheat, you shine,watered well with ruby-coloured wine.

O Slavonia, my beauty dear,I will give you up to no one, never;every corner of this land so proudI will love and guard it well forever!

O my land, the dearest to my heart,I have sworn you a sacred vow, that I,if need be, will give my life for you:here I was born, and here I'll also die!

So, my dear, I earnestly implore,for all the love I've given, deep and true,grant to me a corner of yourself,that forever I may stay with you.

And when I die, you'll blossom on and on,spreading wide your wings as mothers do;while you live, my dear Šokadija,there'll be worthy folk and heroes too!

Holy Lady, keep Croatia safe,dearest heritage my forebears gave;that is why I swore a vow to you:that my Šokadija I would save.

Now I carry all of life's great weight,I'm the bridge on which you tread;and when our time has passed, it will be late,too late for you to stroke my head.

Our youth is slipping past,you live for the young today;old age is coming fast,with pain and grief to stay.

So caress me, darling,give me kisses while you may;heal this aching heart of mineand my soul in its dismay.

Don't forget how swiftly time will fly,leaving all its trace behind;then remember how our youth went by,and once more I'll be dear, you'll find.

Was that enough, then, of a life of happiness?Will she never, never kiss me any more,she whom I love, the joy that I am living for?

Is love forever mingled with our weeping,like a cocktail mixed of joy, but mostly pain?Must one who loves be made to suffer time and again?

As my reward for all the tears that I have dried,my handkerchief will blossom like a fragrant rose,for there's a seed in it, her own warm tear, that grows.

Why do I always write when life is at its end,and skip the joy of those first days, right at the start,when there were not yet many wounds upon my heart?

That's why in each poem of mine the sorrow's flowing,like this one, whose tears I'm wiping dry tonight;while in its agony a smile hides grief from showing,I write my love's own requiem, its final rite.

Yesterday, oh my,Gran held her head sky-high!In her heart, a blazingjoy that will not die.

With her grandchild, Grannywent out for a stroll,and that lovely outingpleased her heart and soul.

What would Granny dowith no grandchild there?She'd just stay at home,dozing in her chair.

Oh, my little grandchild,Granny's joy and cheer,tell your wishes, darling,into Granny's ear.

Everything you wish forGranny'll give to you,all in this wide world,as your mum would do.

A grandchild, to Granny,is part of her pleasure;a grandchild, to Granny,is her greatest treasure.