Tin Ujević Cvrkutanje srca u pokrajini sanja
Ptice pjevaju u mojoj sobi, a ne u kavezu,
puštene od ruku milosrđa u moj blaženi san.
Ptice mi javljaju da su radosno sa mnom u savezu,
ptice cvrkuću u misli i naviještaju crveni dan.
Ptice su ostavile šume i svježe granje stabala.
Sada se sjatile u grad, ali u pohode isključivo meni.
One kljucaju kljunom u plohu zvonkih stakala.
One pjevaju suncu i boji u ovoj ugodnoj sjeni.
One su rekle hvalu vjetru i pjesmi ganuta lista.
Ispričale su povijest stvari u toku između zemlje i neba.
Ptice mi dragaju lice i nude cjelov iz čista.
Ptice će maštâ krotkosti primiti s ruku zrnja i hljeba.
Došle su ptice k meni, k valu, na idealnu rijeku.
One, jedine iskrene, u ovoj građi zidanog mraka.
I, takve, predaju mrkim licima u turobnome vijeku
golemu poruku sreće iz plavetnog zraka.
O ptice, i ja sam ptica, i ja se ljuljam na grani,
ili siječem prostore gdje se razmeđa zemlje brate.
Cvrkuće u mom srcu, jer ja sam duh izabrani,
a vi ste, ptičice, poslane da u mom snu zapjevate.
I kada odlete ptice, ostat će njihova krila,
i moje glasnice iznutra sve nabubrene zvukom.
O ova pera šarena da bi se u let milja razvila
i pobjedu kliktala nad rasparanim mukom!
Vrlo rijetka
odgonetka
živopisna sna:
cvrkuće
s vrh kuće
u moj zvučni Ja!
*Preneseno iz knjige Tin Ujević, „Igračka vjetrova“, izdavač: Školska knjiga
Prijevod:
Warblings of heart in region of dreams
My birds are singing through my room, not in cage,
Left from hands of mercy into my blessed dream.
They are telling me happiness of our sweet union.
Birds are singing in tought foretelling a red day.
Birds had left forests and fresh odour of branches.
Now they setlled town, but in purpose to visit me.
They are picking surfaces of ringing glasses.
They are singing to sun and colours in these cool shades.
They told thanks to wind and songs of trembling leaves.
They told history of things in course between sky and earth.
Birds are caressing me and giving kisses from purity.
Birds will fancy tame receive with arms of bread and grains.
Birds came to me, to wave, on ideal river.
They, only honnest, in that matter of constructed dark.
And, like that, they give gloom faces in dull age
Big massage of happiness from azure skys.
O, birds, I am a bird too, waving on branch,
Or cuting spaces where lines of earth divide.
It twitters in my heart, because I am spirit choosed,
And you, little birds, are sent to sing in my dreams.
And when fly birds away, their wings will remain
And my glottis inside all swollen with a sound.
O those mottled wings to joyous fly unfold
And victory shout over quietness teared!
Solution
Very rare
Of lively dream:
It warbles
On top of the house
Into my sonorous Self!
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