Što Te sputava, srce moje, da ne progovori iz dubina
Kao orgulje skrivene u crnom lišću noći?
Noćas gledaš kako se odražava u Armu red svjetiljaka
Firentinskih.
Zar nisi o tome davno sanjarila
U djetinjstvu, dok su nad glavom
Drhtale zvijezde, u vinogradu?
Noćas, gle! Kako osjećaš vjetar što dolijete s Arna,
Sa rijeke koju gledaš otvorenim očima,
A moglo bi je rukama grabiti kao vodu
S potoka u Rastušju. U Rastušju je mati,
Moja mati, i moje sestre, i kuća. Jeste li spremile
Ljetinu, vas tri koje ste same
Ostale kod starinske kuće mojih djedova,
Čuvajući oganj da ne zgasne med zidovima
Doma koji ostaviše muške ruke? Gledao sam
Danas u San Lorenzu "Zoru", koju stvoriše Ruke
U tamnim tišinama mutnoga stoljeća;
Bez prestanka mislim na ruke te
I ne mogu da vjerujem da su zaista
Mrtve. Mrtve ruke.
Oprostite mi, gospodine Michelangelo, što ja
Raskidane misli redam nevješto u tihe rečenice.
Vi možda već znate da sam ja pjesnik iz Hrvatske,
Koji ne može vjerovati da su vaše ruke
Mrtve. Mrtve ruke.
Mislim na moje polje, koje su neznane
Ruke požnjele, spavaj, srce moje,
I ne slušaj muziku u gostionicama,
I ne uzdiši, i ne plači nad rijekom
Sa svijetlima. Ruka će sigurno
Ugasiti svjetiljke. Spavaj.
Spavaj, srce moje. Vjetar, i zlato, i kosti,
I pepeo. Spavaj.
Evening over the city
Firenze, Piazzale Michelangelo
What is impeding you, my heart, that you do not
begin to speak from the depths
Like the organs hidden in the black foliage of the night?
You observe tonight how a row of lamps reflected
in the Arno glitters,
A row of Florentine lamps.
Didn't you, in childhood long ago,
Dream of this in the vineyard,
While overhead the stars trembled?
Tonight, look! How you feel the wind blowing from the Arno,
From the river that you are watching with open eyes,
And that you could dip out in your hands, like the water
From the creek in Rastušje. Mother is in Rastušje,
My mother and my sisters and my home. Have you already reaped
The harvest, the three of you alone,
Left behind in our old ancestral home,
Watching to see that the fire is not extinguished within the walls
Of the home deserted by men's hands?
I was looking today in San Lorenzo at the Aurora, created by Hands
In the dark silences of the turbid century;
I constantly think of these hands,
And I can't believe that they are really
Dead. Dead hands.
Excuse me, Mr. Michelangelo, that I,
Inexperienced, arrange disconnected thoughts in silent sentences.
Maybe you already know that I am a poet from Croatia
Who cannot believe that your hands are
Dead. Dead hands.
I think of my field which unknown
Hands harvested; sleep, my heart,
And listen no more to the music in the taverns,
And sigh no more, cry no more on the river
With the lights. A hand will surely
Put out the lamps. Sleep.
Sleep, my heart. The wind, and the gold, and the bones.
And the ashes. Sleep.
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