Livade bijele White meadows

Cvatom bijelim cvate jedan cvijet, Mala livada sav je njegov svijet, I podnevno sunce kamen okolni grije, I vjetar hladni tom livadom brije.

Za livade ostale on ne zna, nit’ rijeke, Za planine daleke što stajat će još vijeke. Sljedeću zimu on dočekat neće, Ali rast će, rasti na krilima sreće.

Nit’ mu snovi u zbilju silaze, Nit’ mu zvijezde bliže prilaze, Al’ radost ga ipak osmijehom časti, Jer kao i on, livada će skoro cvatom bijelim cvasti.

In white blossom blooms a flower, The small meadow is all its world, And the noon sun warms the stones around it, And a cold wind sweeps across that meadow.

It knows nothing of other meadows, nor of rivers, Nor of distant mountains that will stand for ages still. It will not see the next winter, But it will grow, will grow on wings of joy.

Its dreams do not descend into the real, Nor do the stars draw any closer, And yet joy honours it with a smile, For like it, the meadow will soon bloom in white.