Umorne ruke moje,
kako ste suhe i žute –
Stavljam vas tiho kraj sebe
na tople jastuke svoje,
da se odmorite.
A tko će vas da odmori?
Vi ste umorne vječno.
Ko vodeno cvijeće hlapite,
kad ga iz vode iščupaju
uz tihu obalu riječnu.
Zalud vas jastuci mole,
Zalud vas tako vole,
vaša je ljubav mrtva,
nju su pokopali davno.
Pa ipak, uboge moje,
nikog do vas nemam –
do boli!
za kim ste žalosne tako,
za kim venete tako
uboge ruke moje?
Ali vi nećete reči! …
Šutite, uvijek šutite
pa onda i ja zašutim
i stisnem se bliže k vama,
a za kućom netko prođe
i lišće padati stane –
i svuda, svuda je tama…

My weary hands,
how dry you are and yellow—
I put you quietly beside me
on my warm pillows,
so you can get rested.
But who could ever rest you?
You are weary forever.
You wilt like water flowers
when they are pulled out of the water
too young
along the quiet river bank.
In vain the pillows beg with you,
in vain they love you so,
your love is dead,
it was buried long ago.
But all the same, my pitiful ones,
there’s no one close to me but you—
to the point of pain!
for whom are you mourning so,
for whom do you fade so
my pitiful hands?
But you don’t want to say! …
You keep silent, always silent,
pensive ones;
and then I too fall silent
and press closer to you,
and someone passes behind the house
and the leaves start falling—
and darkness is everywhere…

translation (c) Sibelan Forrester\

Đuro Sudeta

Đuro Sudeta (1903-1927) was a Croatian writer. In his brief lifetime he published two books of poetry: Osamljenim stazama (“By lonesome paths”) and Kućice u Dolu (“Little houses in Dol”). He also wrote several novels and feuilletons. Read more…

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