Funeral Blues
by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message “He is Dead”.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Grobljanski bluz
Zaustavite sve satove, isecite telefone,
Bacite sočnu kosku psu da ne lane,
Utišajte klavire, nek bubnjevi budu prigušeni
Iznesite kovčeg, nek dođu ožalošćeni.
Pustite avione da krugove tužne prave
I pišu po nebu poruku "Mrtav je".
Vežite jeftine crne mašne na bele gradske golubice,
Saobraćajci nek nose crne pamučne rukavice.
On je bio moj Sever, moj Jug, moj Istok i Zapad
Moj nedeljni odmor, moj svakodnevni rad,
Moje podne, moja ponoć, moja priča, pesma teška;
Mislio sam da ljubav traje večno: kakva greška.
Zvezde mi više ne trebaju; ugasite ih sve,
Spakujte Mesec i Sunce razmontirajte,
Treba isušiti okean i šumu iskoreniti;
Jer nikad ničeg dobrog više neće biti.
Prepevao Nebojša Krstić