Znam, dobri moj Isuse, kad jedne kiše duge,
donesem ti za večeru hljeb skriven pod skut,
ulazeći u sobu, vidjet ću pun tuge
tvoj sveti lik nad novine nagnut.
I nezapažen kraj tebe ću sjesti,
gledajuć mračenje na tvome licu čistom.
Dok pogledom prelijećeš od vijesti do vijesti.
Dok uzbudjeno prevrćeš list za listom.
Čime ću moći da te tješim u tom času,
Stojeći pred tobom, sav stidom obuzet.
I da li bih imao dosta snage u svom glasu,
kada bih pred tobom branio ovaj svijet.
Na telka ta slova pao bih svojim stasom malim,
Radost čovjeka bi u oku mome zasijala.
Pusti, rekao bih ti jedva glasom uzdrhtalim,
nek se i dalje vrti nala zemlja mala.
Onda bih sasvim tiho izilo pred vrata.
I pustio da ostanel sam u svome bolu.
Moleći pred pragom, da tvoj gnjev umiri
mirisni, blagi kruh na stolu.
Jesus reads the newspaper
I know, my good Jesus, that after a long rainy day
when I bring you, hidden under my coat, a loaf
of bread for your supper,
I know that entering your room I will see
your saintly figure bent sadly over the newspapers.
And unobserved I will sit down next to you
and watch how your serene face becomes dejected,
while your glance keeps moving from
news-item to news-item, as excitedly you turn
page after page.
How could I console you in that moment,
Standing in front of you so ashamed.
Would that I had enough force in my voice,
standing in front of you, to defend this world.
I wish I could cover with my body those painful
words and reflect in my eye the joy of man:
With a hardly trembling voice I would say to you
"Let our little earth keep turning."
After that I would go very quietly through the door.
And I would leave you alone with your pain,
praying on the threshold that your anger might
be softened by the fragrant and soft bread.
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