Govorim sebi u šetnji
Poštivam stidljivost onih,
Koji zavolješe neke neohične stvari.
Gospodina s mrenom na očima,
Slabim sluhom i opipom,
Koji se čudi sebi iznutra.
Prijatelja izvaljenih koljena,
Koji nekom starom pantomimom
Izražava svoje sumnjive misli.
Lijepe su mi ljubičaste pjesme seoskih krčma
I jedna ruka,
Koja suvišno visi niz stolove;
I neki veslači,
I neke propale skitnice,
Koji su prosjačkog sveca
Smutili licima i alkoholom.
I drag mi je moj umor blijedih boja,
Što prolazi kroz moje oči, ruke i noge.
I poštivam skromnu glavu svoju,
Koja klima o zalazu sunca.
Poštivam stidljivost onih,
Koji zavolješe neke obične stvari.
Luđakinju malu pred kavanom,
Koja rastjera posjetioce,
A ima samo tanke ruke i noge.
I strah svoj volim,
Jer moja mama želi da živim.
— Pažljivo, a ne s ljubavlju,
Prelazim ulicu!
Na pločniku
Toliko sam strpljiv,
Da mi ruke razvlače ramena.
Upozoravam se na igračke u izlozima,
Ali ne mogu se smijati.
I onda poblijedim od mira.
Na uglu sam se udobno smjestio u popodnevu
Oznojen i slab od očekivanja.
Onaj dolje, koji cvili prošnju,
Od strpljivosti ima ruke teže od mojih.
Zato sam nekom svecu
Zabunom ponudio novac.
— Ja sam danas 22 čovjeka
S ovješenim sjećanjem.
Kroz park
Ovom sam dječaku bio prijatelj
Prije osamnaest godina.
Tako znam, da svaki dan
Ne sretem sve prijatelje.
— Uokolo starci nesigurno guraju riječi
Kroz nekoliko zubi.
Nisam mekog srca
I nikoga nemam da zovnem.
Odlazim bez pratnje
I nimalo svečano.
Ulazeći u rastanak
Vrata su moje kuće samo za mene napravljena
I sve do moje sobe jedne su stepenice.
U cijeloj ovoj građevini izražena je pakost samoće.
Moja kuća — kuća bez susreta.
Pod prozorom klecaju dani skromni i slabi.
Ni za jedan dan, koji se ponavlja
Ne treba čistiti cipele.
Za svaki dan, koji se ponavlja
Previše je par očiju.
Kad su mi misli počele gubiti sigurnost,
Praznina mi se popela na glavu u neugodnom društvu.
Zaključio sam bez imalo strave:
Ah, mi sasvim živimo bez čudaka.
My portrait during one day
I Talk to Myself While Walking
I respect the timidity of those
Who have grown fond of some unusual things.
The gentleman with the cataract
With the weak hearing the weak sense of touch,
Who inwardly wonders about himself.
His friend with sprawling knees,
Who with some old-fashioned pantomine
Expresses his doubtful thoughts.
Beautiful to me are the violet songs of country inns
And the hand,
Which carelessly hangs down from the tables;
And some rowers,
And some broken vagabonds,
Who bewildered the beggarly saint
With their faces and alcohol.
And dear to me is my pale tiredness,
Which crawls through my eyes, hands, and feet.
And I respect this modest head of mine,
Which nods at sunset.
I respect the timidity of those
Who have grown fond of some simple things.
The little crazy-woman in front of the café
Who chases the visitors
But has only thin hands and legs.
And I like my fear,
Because my mamma wants me to live.
—With care, but not with love
I cross the street.
On the Sidewalk
I am so patient
That my hands put a strain on my shoulders.
My attention is called to the toys in the display windows,
But I can't laugh.
And then, from peace I am becoming pale.
I have installed myself comfortably on the corner in the afternoon
Perspiring and without expectation.
That one down there who cries for alms
Has, from his patience, hands even heavier than mine.
Therefore, by mistake
I offered a holy man some money.
—I am today 22 men
With a lingering memory.
Across the Park
I was a friend of this boy
Eighteen years ago.
So I know that
I don't meet my friends everyday.
—Around me old men precariously pull words
Through a few teeth.
I don't have a soft heart
I don't have anybody to call by name.
I leave without escort
And not at all solemnly
Entering into Farewell
The door of my house is made only for me
And only one flight of stairs leads to my room.
In this entire building there is expressed the malice of solitude.
My house—a house without encounters.
Under the window my days, humble and frail totter on.
On, any repetitive day
There is not any necessity to polish one's shoes.
For any repetitive day
A pair of eyes is too much.
When my thoughts started to lose their security.
Emptiness, in bad company, surged up into my head,
I concluded without the least panic:
Ah, we live our lives quite without oddities.
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