Mala zbirka. A small collection.

Jeste vidjeli mi majku? Kažu da joj ime Iris,

Sjećanje mi na nju prazno, ostao je samo miris.

Have you seen my mother? They say her name is Iris,

My memory of her is empty — only the scent remains.

Lelujava je kočija što je divlji konji vuku,

Tražeć' utjehu svoje žalosti u zadovoljstvu,

A swaying carriage drawn by wild horses,

Seeking comfort for its sorrow in pleasure,

Ja sam gospodar svoga uma,

Ja sam klesar svoga tijela,

I am the master of my mind,

I am the stonecutter of my body,

Sagnula se Majka sa nebesa,

Ruke svoje u dolinu pružila.

The Mother bent down from the heavens,

Stretched out Her hands into the valley.

Budnom šumom prohujao je vihor,

Stope moje čas u zemlji, čas u šljunku,

A whirlwind tore through the waking forest,

My footsteps now in earth, now on gravel,

Smijeh zlokobni, sjaj srca iskrivljenog,

Još me jučer zvao kao da je dar ljepote.

An ominous laughter, the gleam of a crooked heart,

Only yesterday it called me as if it were a gift of beauty.

Je li to Bog? Ako da, zašto voli kao čovjek?

Ili to čovjek voli kao Bog?

Is that God? If so, why does He love like a man?

Or does a man love like God?

Nema pića da moju žudnju utaži,

Niti hrane od pepela, gorka, bezokusna,

No drink can quench my longing,

No food but ash, bitter, tasteless,

Ovo je čovjek poput drugih,

Što čeka tramvaj u gužvi

This is a man like the others,

Waiting for a tram in the crowd

Zamislite pjesmu, pjesmu bez rime,

Pjesmu kakvu spjevao bi sami ples,

Imagine a poem — a poem without rhyme,

A poem the dance itself might compose,

Mlada je Slavenka pjesmu svirala,

Stopala joj bosa po

A young Slavic girl was playing a song,

Her bare feet leaping

Tkanina pod mojom kožom meka je kao san,

Gledam u sunce proljetno kroz krošnje,

The cloth beneath my skin is soft as a dream,

I look at the spring sun through the canopies,

Ima jedan proplanak u šumi mraka,

Po kojem ljubav bosih nogu trči,

There is a clearing in the forest of darkness,

Where love runs barefoot,

Ulica ljudi

U potrazi za njima

A street of people

In search of those people

Ne čitajte poeziju moje ruke,

Jer ona je tek odraz,

Do not read the poetry of my hand,

For it is only a reflection,

Usnuo sam san, o Oče,

I bijaše u njemu trpeza,

I dreamed a dream, O Father,

And in it there was a banquet,

Tiho što u kutku mome sjedi,

Uz glazbu i ritam,

A quietness that sits in my corner,

With music and rhythm,

U palači je mojoj spokoj, a pred njom vojska,

Vani dušmanin stupa, u njoj tihi muk.

Calm in my palace, and an army at its gates,

Outside the foe is marching; within, a quiet hush.

Cvatom bijelim cvate jedan cvijet,

Mala livada sav je njegov svijet,

In white blossom blooms a flower,

The small meadow is all its world,

Moja je kruna od opadale kose,

Već duboko pod zemljom.

My crown is made of fallen hair,

Already deep beneath the earth.

Pruga je pred mojim selom prazna,

Vlaka više nema, niti sreće.

The track before my village stands empty,

The train is gone now, and so is happiness.