Paroles et traduction Ibrica Jusić - Trubac Sa Seine - Live at ZKM, 5/7/1997

Trubac Sa Seine - Live at ZKM, 5/7/1997

Moja je soba tako jadno mala
Ja ne bih u njoj izdrzati mog'o.
Da mi oci ne sanjaju budne
Al' ne ropcem, sudbini velim: hvala;
Sto mojoj bijedi cudan sjaj je dala,
I moje patnje nisu uzaludne.

Danas sam opet ruco samo caj
Al' vlazna blagost sja u mome oku.
Ja opet mislim na svoj rodni kraj
I ceznja preobrazava mi javu:
Sa Quaija mjesto Seine cujem Savu
I Tuskanac mi sumi iz aleja.

Na domovini dvostruka je sjena:
Baca je Pesta, baca je Bec.
Ona je sva u crno zavijena
Ne cuje, majko, niko tvoju rijec!
Sumori, dise more, tece Drava,
A izmedju njih jedna zemlja spava.

Pod vedrim nebom slobodnog Pariza
Koliko puta tuga me je srela
U vrevi Etoillea, Saint-Michelea!
O Boze, tu treba biti jak.
U tome svjetlu jos me vise boli
Rodene moje grude gusti mrak.

Udisem Pariz, smjelim bijegom spasih
Slobodnu dusu, ali ja sam sin,
A mojoj majci sve su sjede vlasi.
Ja zene nemam, a ni druga nemam.
Sto jos imadoh? Samo jezik svoj
U koji zivot svoga srca spremam.

Zanosi, misli, ritmovi i rime!
Ja bezimen u bezimenu mnostvu
Daleko negdje sebi sticem ime
I muku mucim samca-dezertera,
Sto zabranjenu domovinu sanja
Na hartiji, u potezima pera.

Pero, ta mala, ta obicna stvar
A kako ziva, kako puna snage.
Kad iz njeg' tece novih rijeci car
Omamljuje me kao govor drage.
Sva utjeha je u tom malom peru:
I sja i grije i vraca mi vjeru.

O Hrvatska, o moja domovino,
Ti moja majko, ti moja davnino
Ti porobljeni, oteti mi kraju!
Gle, jadni dezerter ti daje dar,
Bogatiji no kraljevi ga daju
I sav je ljubav, pobuna i zar.

Ja skoro prosjak duh slobode sirim
Pa i nem'o na svom grobu svijecu
Ja necu, necu da se smirim.
K'o svjezi vjetar u sparinu pirim,
A kada umor svlada duse lijene,
Na otpor trubim, ja trubac sa Seine!

Sto mi je placa? Mrznja gmizavaca
Sto svoje blato lijepe o moj glas
Al' ja pred licem doma stojim vedar
Za hljeb slobode prilazem svoj klas.
Zar nije zlatan i bogat i jedar...
Zar nije zlatan i bogat i jedar...

Trubadour from Seine - Live at ZKM, 5/7/1997

My room is so miserably small
I would not be able to bear it,
If my eyes weren't dreaming while awake
But I do not complain, I tell fate: thank you;
Because it has given my misery a strange glow,
And my suffering is not in vain.

Today I had tea again for lunch
But a moist softness shines in my eye.
I think of my native land again
And longing transforms my reality:
From the Quay instead of the Seine I hear the Sava
And the Tuscan whispers to me from the alleys.

My homeland has a double shadow:
It casts a plague, it casts a Vienna.
It is all wrapped in black
It hears no one's word, mother!
It is gloomy, the sea breathes, the Drava flows,
But between them a land is sleeping.

Under the clear sky of free Paris
How many times sadness has met me
In the hustle and bustle of the Étoile, Saint-Michel!
Oh God, one must be strong here.
In this light, my native land's thick darkness
Pains me even more.

I breathe in Paris, I save my free soul
With a bold escape, but I am a son,
And my mother's hair is all grey.
I have no wife, and no friend.
What else did I have? Only my language
In which I prepare the life of my heart.

Enthusiasm, thoughts, rhythms and rhymes!
I, nameless, in the nameless multitude
Far away, somewhere, I acquire a name for myself
And I suffer the torment of a deserter alone,
Who dreams of his forbidden homeland
On paper, in the strokes of a pen.

The pen, that small, that ordinary thing
And how alive, how full of strength it is.
When a new emperor of words flows from it
It intoxicates me like the speech of my beloved.
All comfort lies in that small pen:
It shines and warms and gives me back my faith.

Oh Croatia, oh my homeland,
You, my mother, you, my antiquity
You, my enslaved, stolen land!
See, a poor deserter gives you a gift,
Richer than kings can give
And all of it is love, rebellion and fire.

I, as a beggar, spread the spirit of freedom
And even if I can't light a candle on my grave
I won't, I won't calm down.
I blow like a fresh wind in the heat,
And when weariness overcomes lazy souls,
Oh resistance, I sound the trumpet, I, the troubadour from the Seine!

What is my reward? The hatred of crawling creatures
Who pour their mud on my voice
But I stand before the face of my home, serene
I offer my ear of corn for the bread of freedom.
Isn't it golden and rich and vibrant...
Isn't it golden and rich and vibrant...