utorak, 5. listopada 2010.

Trubač sa Seine



(Matoš u Parizu)

Moja je soba tako jadno mala,
Da ne bih u njoj izdržati mogo,
Da mi oči ne sanjaju budne.
Al ne ropćem. Sudbini velim: Hvala;
Jer mojoj bijedi čudan sjaj je dala,
I moje patnje nisu uzaludne.

Danas sam opet ručo samo čaj.
Al vlažna blagost sja u mome oku:
Ja opet mislim na svoj rodni kraj.
I čežnja preobražava mi javu:
Sa Quaija mjesto Seine čujem Savu,
I Tuškanac mi šumi iz aleja.

Na domovini dvostruka je sjena:
Baca je Pešta, i baca je Beč.
Ona je sva u crno zavijena —
Ne ćuje, Majko, niko tvoju riječ!
Mrmori, diše more, teče Drava,
A izmedju njih jedna zemlja spava.

Pod vedrim nebom slobodnog Pariza
Koliko puta tuga me je srela
U vrevi Étoilea, Saint-Michelea!
O Bože moj, tu treba biti jak!
U tome svjetlu još me više boli
Rođene moje grude gluhi mrak.

Udišem Pariz. Smjelim bijegom spasih
Slobodnu dušu, ali ja sam sin,
A mojoj majci sve su sjeđe vlasi.
Ja žene nemam, a ni druga nemam.
Što još imadem? Samo jezik svoj,
U koji život svoga srca spremam.

Zanosi, misli, ritmovi i rime!
Ja bezimen u bezimenu mnoštvu
Daleko negdje stičem sebi ime.
I muku mučim samca dezertera,
Što zabranjenu domovinu sanja
Na hartiji, u potezima pera.

Pero ... ta mala, ta obična stvar,
A kako živa, kako puna snage!
Kad iz njeg teće novih riječi čar,
Omamljuju me kao govor drage.
Sva utjeha je u tom malom peru,
Što pod njim niče, smije se i plače,
I sja i grije, i vraća mi vjeru.

O Hrvatska, o moja domovino,
Ti moja bajko, ti moja davnino!
Ti porobljeni, oteti mi kraju!
Gle, jadni dezerter ti daje dar,
Bogatiji no kraljevi ga daju,
I sav je ljubav, pobuna i žar.

Ja, skoro prosjak duh slobode širim,
Pa ma i nemô na svom grobu svijeću,
Ja neću, neću, neću da se smirim.
Ko svježi vjetar u sparinu pirim,
A kada, umor svlada duše lijene,
Na otpor trubim ja trubač sa Seine!

Što mi je plaća? Mržnja gmizavaca,
Što svoje blato lijepe o moj glas.
Al ja pred licem roda stojim vedar.
Za hljeb slobode prilažem svoj klas:
Zar nije zlatan i bogat i jedar?





The trumpeter of the Seine


Matoš (1) in Paris

My room is so meagerly small
That I could not endure it
If I did not daydream.
But I don't complain. I say Thank you, destiny;
For giving splendor to my misery
So that my suffering is not in vain.

Today again my lunch was only a cup of tea.
But my look is full of gentleness:
Again I think of my native country.
This dream is changing my reality:
On the quay instead of the Seine I hear the Sava (2)
And here the alley is our Tuškanac. (3)

On my country lies a double shadow:
That of Vienna and that of Budapest.
My native country is shrouded in black—
And nobody, Mother, hears your voice!
The sea keeps on breathing, the Drava flowing,
And between them a country sleeps.

Free under the clear sky of Paris
How many times have I felt despair
In the crowds of the Étoile, Saint-Michele!
O my God, give me strength!
By this light I feel much more
The pitch-dark night of my country.

I breathe Paris. By bold flight I saved
The freedom of my spirit, but I am also a son,
And my mother is getting ever more grey.
No wife, no comrade have I.
What then do I have but my language
In which I keep the life of my heart.

Ecstasy, thoughts, rhythms, and rhymes!
Anonymous in an unknown crowd, I am
Making a name for myself somewhere far away.
A deserter, I suffer here alone
and dream of my forbidden country
Only with the words of my pen.

The pen... this small, curious thing,
How vivid it is, and how strong!
When from it flow the novel words
Which enchant me like my sweetheart's speech.
All my comfort is in this little pen,
From it stems my joy and my sorrow,
In me it shines, it warms my faith.

O Croatia, O my country,
You, my fairy tale, you my past!
You enslaved captive land of mine!
Look, the poor deserter's gift
Is richer than the kingly one,
For it is love, ardor, and revolt.

A beggar, I spread around the spirit of liberty,
And I do not care if on my grave no candle will burn,
I will not give in, never, never.
As a fresh breeze in the heat I blow again,
And when the lazy minds are tiring,
I, the trumpeter of the Seine,
Sound my call of resistance!

And what is my pay? The hatred of the crawlers
Who stick their mud to my repute
But I face my people with serenity.
For freedom's bread I give my grain:
Is it not golden and sound and rich?


---
(1) Antun Gustav Matoš (1873-1914), Croatian essayist, storyteller, and poet, lived for several years in Paris as an emigré. He strongly influenced modern Croatian literature.
(2) Sava, a river that flows through Zagreb.
(3) Tuškanac, a wooded park in Zagreb.



Ibrica Jusić

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