Paroles et traduction Marcelo - Muk

Muk

Kao mali, čuo sam priču o Cvrčku i mravu.
Bez polemike ko je u pravu.
Cvrčak je neradnik, zaslužuje da skapa.
Po zimi. Gladan. Sam i jadan.
Kao da nema dana radnog staža,
Za razliku od mrava, koji je fizikalac.
Koji pošteno šljaka. Koji nešto stvara.
A to što ovaj svira, to je prazna slama i badava.
Živim u svetu gde se to baš tako shvata.
Hule na svakog cvrčka. On zgazio ni mrava.
Ne razlikuju muze od mužnje i blata.
Ne razlikuju muzičara od muzikanta.
Oteli su autorska, sad će i ljudska prava.
Umetnik je marva. U ruci magla i zjala.
Muzika umire, masu nije briga.
Još samo malo, i ostaće ništa.

Ostaće muk. U glavama i ušima.
Ljudske ljuske, pustara. Muk.
A čovek je čoveku zvuk.
Jadne vam svetkovine.
I vaši lampioni.
Vaši šampioni.
Vaši milioni.
Vaše prazne oči.
I krv na vašim ušima,
Gde umrla je muzika.

Ostaće muk. U glavama i ušima.
Ljudske ljuske, pustara. Muk.
A čovek je čoveku zvuk.
Jadne vam svetkovine.
I vaši lampioni.
Vaši šampioni.
Vaši milioni.
Vaše prazne oči.
I krv na vašim ušima,
Gde umrla je muzika.

Ostaće samo rijaliti i radijska statika,
Da krči u trulim ušima zombija
Dok pingponguje po praznim glavama,
Gde stih grobuje. Po halama,
Genocid nota, mrtve su i slomljene.
Na Trgu Velikog brata, bezumni dižu lomaču,
Da spale instrumente, ideje i konačnu
Pobedu proglase, dok mrtvom rukom
šalju poruku da glasaju za najalapaču i porugu.
Vitlaju svojim crevima, srećni i prosečni.
Imaju ogrlice od ušiju što su posekli.
Tišina im se zavlači u očne duplje
Kojim zveraju u ružne predmete, plaćene skuplje.
Zastava sa slikom nosa zabodena u tuđa posla.
Gnjili zubi žvaću intimu, a usta prosta
Pljuckaju komade duše na lice sagovornika,
Dok muk im grla struže.

...a gde je muzika?
Smak sveta bez saundtreka.
...gde je muzika?
Krv na vašim ušima.

Ostaće muk. U glavama i ušima.
Ljudske ljuske, pustara. Muk.
A čovek je čoveku zvuk.
Jadne vam svetkovine.
I vaši lampioni.
Vaši šampioni.
Vaši milioni.
Vaše prazne oči
I krv na vašim ušima,
Gde umrla je muzika. Ostaće muk. U glavama i ušima.
Ljudske ljuske, pustara. Muk.
A čovek je čoveku zvuk.
Jadne vam svetkovine.
I vaši lampioni.
Vaši šampioni.
Vaši milioni.
Vaše prazne oči.
I krv na vašim ušima,
Gde umrla je muzika.

Silence

As a child, I heard the story of the Cricket and the Ant.
No debate about who's right.
The cricket is a slacker, deserves to die.
In the winter. Hungry. Alone and miserable.
As if he doesn't have a single day of work experience,
Unlike the ant, who's a hard worker.
Who honestly toils. Who creates something.
And the fact that this one plays music, that's just empty straw and worthless.
I live in a world where it's understood exactly like that.
Blasphemy upon every cricket. He wouldn't hurt an ant.
They don't distinguish muses from milking and mud.
They don't distinguish a musician from a music player.
They stole copyrights, now they'll take human rights too.
The artist is cattle. In his hand, mist and a void.
Music is dying, the masses don't care.
Just a little more, and nothing will remain.

Only silence will remain. In the heads and ears.
Human husks, a wasteland. Silence.
And a man is a sound to another man.
Pitiful are your celebrations.
And your lanterns.
Your champions.
Your millions.
Your empty eyes.
And the blood on your ears,
Where music has died.

Only silence will remain. In the heads and ears.
Human husks, a wasteland. Silence.
And a man is a sound to another man.
Pitiful are your celebrations.
And your lanterns.
Your champions.
Your millions.
Your empty eyes.
And the blood on your ears,
Where music has died.

Only reality shows and radio static will remain,
To crackle in the rotten ears of zombies
While ping-ponging in empty heads,
Where verses are buried. In halls,
Genocide of notes, they are dead and broken.
In the Square of Big Brother, the mindless build a pyre,
To burn instruments, ideas, and the final
Victory they declare, while with a dead hand
They send a message to vote for the loudest and the mockery.
They brandish their guts, happy and mediocre.
They have necklaces made of ears they've cut off.
Silence crawls into their eye sockets
With which they leer at ugly objects, paid for dearly.
A flag with a picture of a nose stuck into other people's business.
Rotten teeth chew on intimacy, and vulgar mouths
Spit pieces of soul onto the faces of their interlocutors,
While silence scrapes their throats.

...and where is the music?
The end of the world without a soundtrack.
...where is the music?
Blood on your ears.

Only silence will remain. In the heads and ears.
Human husks, a wasteland. Silence.
And a man is a sound to another man.
Pitiful are your celebrations.
And your lanterns.
Your champions.
Your millions.
Your empty eyes
And the blood on your ears,
Where music has died. Only silence will remain. In the heads and ears.
Human husks, a wasteland. Silence.
And a man is a sound to another man.
Pitiful are your celebrations.
And your lanterns.
Your champions.
Your millions.
Your empty eyes.
And the blood on your ears,
Where music has died.