уторак, 18. децембар 2012.

Romania says most beautifully yes



Blue dresses are fluttering ,
down the endless Boulevard of Karoly the First
hiding the women
with  the eyes of water’s birds,
they‘re fluttering like the little pieces of cut of sky
they‘re traveling and fly
as a blue contours
of official envelopes
which hide the love letters,
After a few trivial dying galaxies
after a few very important World Wars ,
after  thousands of the great nations
who have died, and survived in one crumb of us
we have stopped at the same word,
between the first kiss and neither kiss
pausing at the same spring,
pausing at the same river,
First time in a life we have wished
most beautifully together on this world
through the  touch of the firsts,
as so shy children
concealing by the hands their rosy faces,
we have wished
to survive together in some happier kids.

As I ‘m watching how the sky goes down
with the hands of the autumn rains
carrying in the arms
the last angels
which they ‘re willing to trust to the people
at least at this winter,
I'm sure that  Prevert wrote his this verse
thinking, right about  this town
"God's good Sun doesn’t care for us,
It remains in the rich neighborhoods
Here you are dying from everything,
From the heat or from the winter
Or you are freezing, or you are smothering,
Here  is no air,
If you stop to kiss me."
illuminated and irradiated by the lights of Paris,
I am sure he has seen right this country,
strayed piece of Russian’s taiga
where the most beautiful fairytales are still talked
by cold fingers and by the hot hearts
because honestly they believe in them
until smothered yourself of the imagination,
until the end.

Oh, how terrible was that communism,
imagine
how many just wonderful babies and smiles
were born because of this harsh Ceaucescu
who has banned that the rivers of life
someone stops at the source,
today, the names of thousands of embracing ones
wouldn’t walk
by the Danube and by the Black Sea,
this world would be a poorer
for one lost constellation of love,
and I would have no one to hug
surely in this day to see
and to say – Raise yourself on the fingers,
'You ‘ll be bigger than Stefan cel Mare,
this great Moldavian Prince
from which  Hungarians and Turks have shivered
at the bridges of silence where the deathwatch hides,
and you wouldn’t have a bunch
of those wonderful cousins and sisters,
and you would not be able to tell
- This  most youngest  she's my
the dearest friend.


One day, we will grow up
and you and me,
Don’t  hurry,
Once when our eyes become less
when they stop growing from the fear and wonders,
in this corner of destiny
where nothing is certain,
nothing,
until you  firmly embrace it with hands
and snuggle it to you,
I’m not sure these hands are mine
in this life,
neither the my language which I spike
nor the my thoughts which I think,
imagine how it is beautiful insecurity,
Imagine
we will never speak one the same language,
but it seems to be we best understand
each other now,
among this unreasonable  four eyes
in this short eternity
it seems  that we messed up
some strings of the Prophets
who ones said that in this millennium
we live last our lives on this planet
which will never become a star.

God, how those senile old wise men
were naive and selfish,
trapped in their solitude, prophets
in disinfected desires, in killed longings,
this world deserves to become a star
to become the biggest star,
that no hug and neither kiss
to be interrupted in itself story,
from terrible tiredness, more frightening quest,
at the beginning of the birth of stars,
at the beginning of the love
No one dare to say No.
Can you hear how the most beautifully
for all of us,
us vagabonds, the liars and lovers
from the sun to the mud
for the us gypsies in the heart
the darkest of distrust,
Romania says most beautifully yes,
yes to love, yes to dream until smothered yourself.

Above the crystal coffin of too Holy,
too dead St. Parasceva
in yellow little church on the hill,
I realized all the sanctity of the life
thousandth time on this most holy world still
among all these embroidery, wooden crosses,
kneeling souls, dying dreams
which are eager forgiveness and happiness,
I’ve been seen alive, too alive saints
with black and blue curls,
with the eyes of old women in smile
and  children in cries,
they had extinct wisdom in sorrow,
a force of the unrecognizing  love
in too seldom  life’s rainbow,
and weakness, excessive weakness
that they able to see
in the eyes of  their descendants
all faith and sworn hope
stretched between their praying hands,
a hundred years before
than someone ignites the candles
at their grave,
I figured out the enigma of eternals
good bye and forgiveness,
that, in all of us is hiding one saint,
given to this world for a short test.


In the red sand
of an ancient Botanical garden,
in the middle
embraced by the hundreds of flowers
and petals of them
Mihai Eminescu in stone,
poet of the flowers and stars
the heart of this country, of this town
the greatest poet with just one book
who would be able to understand
and by stone brain now,
easier and faster than anyone
on border of the imagination,
that the parching limes
more beautifully love and caress now
than the human hands
which  list and  read poetry of love,
which willing to say no to everything beautiful,
but Romania for all of them
so beautifully whispers Yes.

On the main railway "Gara Mare"
taxi driver in cowboy boots
and with Lenin’s mustache opens his soul,
in the perfect Italian-English
-Do you hear these winds that blow,
All this bad things are from that  Russia,
They are still breathing back on our necks,
and they are watching our dreams,
and you see all those dogs,
my friend, the actress Brigitte Bardot,
has banned us to kill them all
Now the town is full of them,
more than the birds.
And really
down the railway, down the boulevards
the wet eyes of stray dogs roll across
and behind them,
also my thoughts
-My dear friend,
Brigitte  didn’t let you to kill your soul,
at least for a while, for some few years,
until all of you shoe cowboy boots,
and shave that mustache, ugly habit
last signs of life of cowboys and knights
at this too gentle, too feeble world.

Cause the town needs to look
just like that
which hasn’t yet lost half of its soul,
just like that
as the last romantic Orient Express,
that has been headed  to the west
follow the sun
but it doesn’t know how to go faster
than racehorses,

Let's spit we together
to east and to west
because we are too small for anything larger,
except that we the most beautifully dream
and most wonderfully swear
cause that just your homeland,
Romania, will always say to you
most beautifully yes.

While the wind of Subcarpates wriggles
the most gentle love song
through  two easy cheap chords
on parching, teary branches of limes,
and the slopes of our plans are melting,
the plans to buy at least this eternity
in a few days,
for a handful of crumbled dreams
discovered
in the labyrinths of undiscovered illness
revamped secrets of the tunnels of love
where just our eyes have lighted,
for you and me
two comets have sprinted faster
between our  palms near the Earth,
and they have turned one sunny day
into two light-years
and a pair of light nights,
because we are born to last longer
than the one touch of the dream
to travel farther than the hunger
for the only one sky above us.

I am certain that the rose sellers
will remember me more than you ever will,
cause taking hand  less remember still
than the giving hand
and you know what,
let someone else buys  for you gloves
for this Winter and those
always cold your hands,
From me it s enough
that I have kept and fed with love
two frozen swallows in love
through winter days
in those yours abandoned eyes.

On the morning when I leave,
out of the snow an enormous fairy tale will arise
in the vastness of your eye,
and our dreams and our needs
will become magic of carelessness
and silence,
after a spoken lullaby
in a child’s sleep,
and the craziest of depths in us
endlessly thirsty
for new wonders and freedoms,
and nobody will believe
that you could’ve said no
by those lips of tired stars,
on the night when everything
with names and eyes
have told the most beautiful – Yes.

Take a deep breath
and shift at least a single cloud
when I go behind the cranes of Banat,
and put your finger on the spot
where two different nations first met,
two identical cosmic bodies,
and try not to understand it all,
stay the same until the end,
without great words and tears,
Romania who tells the most beautiful – Yes.

Post scriptum:
And there far away,
when Winters start again seeing

through the eyes of the Spring
and the birds start to learn again to fly,
you will remember and so will I:
„Ce ma fac eu fara tine“
                                        
dedicat R. Birgaoanu 

                     Iasi, spring 2013


Translation Serbian to English:

Stefan Mraović, Nenad Zorić
Literary Youth of Serbia



петак, 14. децембар 2012.

Rumunija najljepše kaže Da


Lepršaju plave haljine,
beskrajnim bulevarom Karolja Prvog
krijući žene s očima vodenih ptica,
lepršaju kao mali otkinuti komadi neba,
putuju kao obrisi plavih službenih koverata
što kriju ljubavna pisma,
nakon par nebitnih umiranja galaksija,
nakon nekolika, vrlo bitna svjetska rata,
nakon hiljada velikih naroda
koji su umrli, i preživjeli tek mrvu u nama
zastavši na istoj riječi,
između prvog i nijednog poljupca
zastavši istog proljeća, na istoj rijeci,
poželjeli smo prvim dodirom
najljepše skupa na svijetu,
kao sramežljiva djeca
krijući rukama svoja rumena lica
da preživimo u nekoj srećnijoj djeci.

Dok gledam kako nebo silazi
sa rukama od jesenjih kiša
i u naručju nosi posljednje anđele
spremne da vjeruju ljudima
bar ove zime,
siguran sam da je Prever taj svoj stih
napisao misleći, baš na neki ovaj grad
“Dobro božje sunce za nas ne haje,
Ono u bogataškim četvrtima ostaje
Ovdje se umire od svega,
Od toplote il’ od zime,
Ili se smrzavaš il’ se ugušiš,
Ovdje vazduha nema,
Ako prestaneš da me ljubiš
obasjan i ozračen svjetlima  Pariza,
siguran sam da je vidio ovu zemlju,
komad odlutale ruske tajge
u kojoj se još uvijek pričaju najljepše bajke
hladnim prstima, i vrelim srcima
jer se se u njih iskreno vjeruje
do kraja, dok se ne ugušiš od maštanja.


O kako je bio strašan taj komunizam,
Zamisli,
koliko je divnih beba i osmjeha
rođeno zbog tog surovog Čaušeskog
što je branio da se rijeke života
zaustave kod izvora,
zamisli
i da se hiljade zagrljenih imena danas ne šeta
kraj Dunava i Crnog Mora,
kako bi ovaj svijet bio siromašniji
za jedno sazvježđe ljubavi,
i ja ne bih imao koga da zagrlim
sigurno ovog dana
i kažem – Propni se na prste,
bićeš veća od tog Štefana Ćel Mara,
velikog moldavskog Princa
pred kojim su drhtali i Ugari i Turci
na mostovima tišine gdje čuči mrtva straža,
i ti ne bi imala gomilu te divne braće
i sestara,
i ne bi mogla kazati
- ona najnajmlađa mi je najdraža.

Odrašćemo jednom i ti i ja,
ne žuri,
jednom kad nam oči postanu manje,
kad prestanu da rastu od straha i čuda,
u ovom kutku sudbine,
gdje ništa baš sigurno nije,
ništa dok čvrsto ne obuhvatiš rukama
i priviješ uz sebe,
nisam siguran ni ove ruke da su
u ovom životu moje,
ni ovaj jezik, ni ove misli,
zamisli koliko prelijepe nesigurnosti,
zamisli mi nikad nećemo
pričati jedan isti jezik,
a čini se da se najbolje razumijemo
u ova četiri nerazumna oka
u ovoj kratkoj vječnosti,
i kao da smo pomrsili konce nekih proroka
da ovog milenijuma
živimo posljednje svoje živote
na ovom planetu
koji nikad neće postati zvijezda,
Bože, kako su ti senilni mudri starci
bili naivni i sebični,
zarobljeni u svojoj samoći, proroci,
u ubijenim čežnjama, dezinfikovanim željama
ovaj svijet zaslužuje da postane zvijezda
da postane najveća zvijezda,
da nijedan zagrljaj i poljubac
ne bude prekinut u svojoj priči,
od strašnog umora od još strašnijeg traganja,
na početku rađanja zvijezde, na početku ljubavi
niko ne smje da kaže Ne,
čuješ li kako najljepše za sve nas,
lutalice, lažljive i zaljubljene od sunca do blata
za nas cigane u duši
najcrnje od nepovjerenja,
Rumunija kaže najljepše da,
da se voli, da se sanja dok se ne ugušiš.

Nad kristalnim kovčegom presvete,
premrtve Svete Petke
u žutoj crkvici na brijegu,
shvatio sam svu svetinju života
hiljaditi put na ovom presvetom svijetu,
među svim tim vezenim, drvenim krstovima,
klečećim dušama, umrlim snovima
željnim oprosta i sreće
vidio sam žive, prežive svece,
s uvojcima crnim i plavim,
sa očima nasmijanih starica i uplakane djece,
koji su imali ugašenu mudrost u tugi,
snagu neprepoznavanja providnosti
u prerjetkoj životnoj dugi,
i nemoć, prejaku nemoć
da u očima svojih potomaka
vide svu vjeru i nadu zakletu
razapetu između  svojih umolitvenih šaka,
stotinu godina prije
nego što im neko upali svijeće na grobu,
shvatio sam zagonetku vječitog odlaska,
praštanja i opraštanja,
da u svima nama čuči jedan svetac,
stavljen ovom svijetu na kratku probu.

U crvenom pijesku,
usred botaničke drevne bašte,
zagrljen stotinama cvijetova i latica,
u kamenu Mihaj Eminesku,
pjesnik cvijeća i zvijezda
i srce ove zemlje, ovog grada
najveći pjesnik sa samo jednom knjigom
koji bi razumio i kamenim mozgom sada,
više i brže od svih na granici mašte
da se ogolele lipe
ljepše vole i miluju od ljudskih ruku
koje ga sad listaju i čitaju,
spremnih da svemu lijepom kažu ne,
ali zato Rumunija najljepše šapuće Da.

Na glavnoj željezničkoj „Gara Mare“
taksista u kaubojskim čizmama
i s brkovima Lenjina mi otvara svoju dušu,
na savršenom talijansko-engleskom
-Čuješ ovi vjetrovi što pušu,
sve je to iz te Rusije,
još nam za vratom dišu,
i posmatraju nam snove,
i vidiš sve ove kerove,
To je ona Brižit Bardo glumica,
prijatelju, zabranila da pobijemo
sad ih je pun grad, više ih ima od ptica.
A niz prugu, niz bulevare
stvarno,
kotrljaju se mokre oči pasa lutalica,
i moje misli za njima
-Dragi moj prijatelju,
Brižit vam nije dala da ubijete svoju dušu,
bar još malo, još koju godinu,
dok svi ne obuju kaubojske čizme,
i obriju te brkove, tu naviku ružnu
posljednje znake života kauboja i viteza
na ovom raznježenom, malaksalom svijetu.


Jer ovako treba da izgleda grad
kome još nisu oteli pola duše,
baš ovako
kao zadnji romantični Orjent ekspres,
koji se uputio ka zapadu za suncem
a ne umije da ide od trkaćih konja brže,
Hajde da skupa pljunemo
u pravcu istoka i pravcu zapada
jer previše smo mali za nešto veće,
sem da najljepše sanjamo i najljepše kunemo
jer samo tvoja domovina,
Rumunija, će ti uvijek najljepše reći da.

A vjetar zakarpatja provlači
najljubavniju pjesmu
kroz dva jeftina akorda
na ogolelim, suznim granama lipa,
i tope se obronci naših planova
da kupimo bar ovu vječnost
u par dana, za šaku izmrvljenih snova
pronađenu
u lavirintima neotkrivenih bolesti,
u tajnama povampirenih tunela ljubavi
u kojima su svjetlile samo naše oči,
zbog tebe i mene
dvije komete su projurile brže
između naših dlanova kraj zemlje,
i pretvorile jedan sunčan dan
u dvije svjetlosne godine
i par svjetlosnih noći,
jer mi smo rođeni da trajemo duže
od jednog dodira sna,
da putujemo dalje od gladi
za samo jednim nebom nad nama.

Siguran sam da će me prodavci ruža
pamtiti jednog dana više nego ti,
jer ruka koja uzima,
još uvijek manje pamti
od one koja pruža, i znaš šta
nek ti neko drugi kupi rukavice
za ovu zimu i te vječito hladne ruke,
od mene dosta
što sam sačuvao i hranio usred zime
dvije promrzle lastavice
u tim napuštenim očima.

Onog jutra kad odem
iz snijega će izrasti velika, zimska bajka
u prostranstvima tvoga oka,
naše sanjanje, naše moranje
postaće čarolija bezbrižnosti
i tišina,
nakon ispričane uspavanke u snu djeteta,
i ona najluđa dubina
u nama beskrajno žedna
novih čuda i slobode,
i niko neće vjerovati da si ti umjela reći ne
sa tim usnama od umornih zvijezda,
te noći kad je sve što je imalo
imena i oči, reklo najljepše Da.

Duboko uzdahni,
i oblak bar jedan pomakni,
kad odem za ždralovima Banata,
i stavi  prst na ono mjesto
gdje su se prvi put srela
dva drukčija naroda,
dva ista nebeska tijela,
i ne trudi se da sve shvataš,
ostani ista od kraja, bez velikih riječi i suza,
ona Rumunija koja naljepše kaže Da.

Post scriptum:

A tamo daleko,
Kad očima proljeća progledaju zime
i ptice opet počnu učiti letjeti,
sjetićeš se i ja ću se sjetiti
 „Ce ma fac eu fara tine“