Paroles et traduction Ibrica Jusić - Trubač Sa Seine

Trubač Sa Seine

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...

Trumpeter of the Seine

My room is awfully small
I couldn't bear to stay inside it
If my eyes didn't dream when they're awake
But I don't complain, I say thank you to fate
That it gave my misery a strange glow
And that my suffering is not in vain.

Today I again had only tea for breakfast
But a moist sensuality shines in my gaze.
I again think of my native land
And longing transforms my reality:
From the Quai instead of the Seine I hear the Sava's flow
And the Tuskanac whispers to me from the alleys.

On my homeland a double shadow rests
Cast by Budapest, cast by Paris.
She's all wrapped in black
She can't hear your voice, Mother!
The marshlands hum, the Drava flows
And in between them a country sleeps.

Under the open skies of free Paris
How many times has sadness met me
In the whirl of the Etoile, the Saint-Michel!
Oh God, here you must be strong.
In that light the thick darkness
Over my native soil pains me even more.

I breathe Paris, I save my bold flight
My free soul, but I'm a son,
And my mother's hair is turning gray.
I have no wife, nor any other friend.
What else did I have? Just my language
Into which I weave the life of my heart.

Enthusiasm, thoughts, rhythms and rhymes!
I, nameless in the faceless crowd
Far somewhere forge my name
And suffer the torment of a lone deserter
Who dreams of his forbidden homeland
On paper, in the strokes of a pen.

A pen, that small, ordinary thing
But how alive, how full of power.
When a new king of words flows from it
It intoxicates me like a lover's speech.
All my comfort lies in that little pen:
It shines and warms and restores my faith.

Oh Croatia, oh my homeland,
You my mother, you my past
You enslaved, stolen piece of mine!
See, a poor deserter gives you a gift,
Richer than kings give
And it's all love, rebellion and fire.

I, a near beggar, spread the spirit of freedom
So even though there's no candle on my grave
I won't, I won't calm down.
I blow like a fresh wind into the heat,
And when tiredness overcomes lazy souls,
I sound the trumpet of resistance, I, the trumpeter of the Seine!

What is my reward? Hatred of vile creatures
Who pour their mud on my voice
But before the face of my homeland I stand serene
And offer my ear of corn for the bread of freedom.
Isn't it golden and rich and healthy...
Isn't it golden and rich and healthy...