And sometimes during the late nights,
when my tired soul wears off in my chest,
that the heaven opens like the heaven’s fountains,
when from the blackest darkness, my black poems burst.
From the countless burning aches and bloody wounds,
from the dirty pan, from these dirty days,
my poems grow, as black as shameful darkness:
and they cry with scream, deep as the darkest depth.
And it happens that because of others I die with shame,
that my own words become too tight for me,
and that they burn like the sea midst the madly storm.
My poems are dark, dark as the darkness itself.
And inside, oh, yet only one moved man cries,
sometimes silently, sometimes louder, louder and louder...
that the heaven opens like the heaven’s fountains,
when from the blackest darkness, my black poems burst.
From the countless burning aches and bloody wounds,
from the dirty pan, from these dirty days,
my poems grow, as black as shameful darkness:
and they cry with scream, deep as the darkest depth.
And it happens that because of others I die with shame,
that my own words become too tight for me,
and that they burn like the sea midst the madly storm.
My poems are dark, dark as the darkness itself.
And inside, oh, yet only one moved man cries,
sometimes silently, sometimes louder, louder and louder...
Vinko Kalinić
(Translated by
Darko Kotevski)
Moje pjesme
I bude kadikad tako u večeri kasne,
kad mi duša umona u prsima gasne,
da otvore se nebesa k`o nebeske česme,
te iz tmine crne, crne moje šiknu pjesme.
Iz bezbroj gorućih boli i krvavih rana,
iz prljave zdjele, iz prljavih ovih dana,
rastu moje pjesme, crne k`o crnina sramna:
i vape krikom, dubokim k`o dubina tamna.
I bude da porad` drugih umirem od srama,
da mi vlastite riječi postanu tijesne,
i da bukte k`o more sred oluje bijesne.
Pjesme su moje tamne, tamne k`o tama sama.
I u njima, o, tek jedan čovjek ganut plače,
kadkad tiho, a kad sve jače, jače i jače...
Vinko Kalinić
kad mi duša umona u prsima gasne,
da otvore se nebesa k`o nebeske česme,
te iz tmine crne, crne moje šiknu pjesme.
Iz bezbroj gorućih boli i krvavih rana,
iz prljave zdjele, iz prljavih ovih dana,
rastu moje pjesme, crne k`o crnina sramna:
i vape krikom, dubokim k`o dubina tamna.
I bude da porad` drugih umirem od srama,
da mi vlastite riječi postanu tijesne,
i da bukte k`o more sred oluje bijesne.
Pjesme su moje tamne, tamne k`o tama sama.
I u njima, o, tek jedan čovjek ganut plače,
kadkad tiho, a kad sve jače, jače i jače...
Vinko Kalinić
Моје песме
И буде кадикад тако у вечери касне,
кад ми душа умрона у прсима гасне,
да отворе се небеса ко небеске чесме,
те из тмине црне, црне моје шикну песме.
Из безброј горућих боли и крвавих рана,
из прљаве Здјеле, из прљавих ових дана,
расту моје песме, црне ко црнина срамна:
и вапе криком, дубоким ко дубина тамна.
И буде да порад других умирем од срама,
да ми сопствене речи постану тесне,
и да букте ко море сред олује бесне.
Песме су моје тамне, тамне ко тама сама.
И у њима, о, тек један човек ганут плаче,
кадкад тихо, а кад све јаче, јаче и јаче...
Винко Калинић
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