Paroles et traduction Marcelo - Šankeru

Šankeru

Šankeru,
Ti si moj najbolji drug.
Noćas si moj saputnik. Sapatnik. Jer si... tu.
Vidiš ove ožiljke?
Posekli me jezici.
Svečano te zabole,
Al' ti me barem ni za šta ne kriviš.

Iskrvari mi iz flaše u čašu.
Iz čaše u dušu, gde nekad živeo je svet.
Uzmi otruj me, samo mi ne kvari
(Daj mi)
Ovaj ples sa njom, ovaj zaplet loš, moj napet šou.

Proliv osećanja, dok povraćam šta sanjam,
Da ti se zgadim da me ne bi slušao do kraja,
Jer su to kafanska sranja. I sluz ispod šanka
Da život postao je i sevdah, i kara.
Ljudi su me popili... vidiš, sad sam samo dance,
što cakli tek pod zadimljenim svetlom kafane.
Al' tu nema epske priče, i svi razlozi su fuš stih.
Ljudi iznužde razloge. A tužni su što su tužni.
Zapekli u prirodni čamot što ih vodi ovamo
Da sednu i šikaju i izmisle svoj razlog.
Nema čak ni tragedije što bi dala povod.
Nedogađaj. Prošluješ. Sav si kao govno.
I sam si kao Bog svoj. Bolestan od ljudi.
Umoran od sebe i istrošen do srži.
Pričaju o zemlji, uzmu pričaju o plati...
Pa i ja. I tu sam negde prestao da mladim.
Imaš tri banke, i odjednom nije to-to.
Sve manje raskršća, samo mirni put kroz Mordor.
I ne sećaš se kad si na život navuk'o kondom,
I kad se tako ravnodušno slepio sa kožom.
I smeškaš se, živuckaš, sve kul, sve ide dobro.
Tek, bezimena tuga u tebi živi svoj komfor.
Flaširana sinestezija. Ples za vinske muve.
I krivica što nisi umeo bolje da umeš.

Sa dvadeset, gledaš u budućnost dvogledom.
Nije dobro, ali biće bolje dok se tamo dođe.
I grabiš kroz to raskršće, i za sve si rođen!
Između tebe i futura – beskrajno polje volje.
Velika setva nade. Trčanje kroz kalendar.
Trud, snaga, vera – al' samo jedan treptaj,
I bum – stakla tvog dvogleda su paramparčad,
Jer udare u budućnost. I nije baš krasan prasak.
Budućnost je tu, to je ovo, i nije baš nešto.
Velika žetva trnja, probušeno meso.
Iz rupa curi svašta, ali najbrže nada.
I tako obogaljen, zveraš u cirkus iz pakla.
Bensendirani građani, kasting za Walking dead;
Vođe i vladari što igraju Game of thrones;
Uklopljivi u svašta suštinski govore – ništa.
Bez etabliranja, etabloidiranje sija.
Žale devedesete, uz tablete za smirenje.
Klinci slave devedesete, uz tAblete za smirenje.
Beše polet za uzlet, al' sve beše samo izlet.
Raskršće se suzilo na sokak kojim ideš.
Baloni ispucani po patosu posle žurke.
Ploča koji preskače. Iznurene njuške.
Cigara što me puši. U čaši nešto duše.
I krivica što neću umeti bolje da umrem.

To the Bartender

Bartender,
You're my best friend tonight.
My companion. My confidant. Because... you're here.
See these scars?
Tongues have cut me deep.
You couldn't care less, of course,
But at least you don't blame me for anything.

Bleed my bottle into the glass.
From the glass into my soul, where a world once lived.
Take it, poison me, just don't spoil
(Give me)
This dance with her, this bad plot, my tense show.

A diarrhea of feelings, as I vomit what I dream,
Hoping you'll be disgusted and not listen to the end,
Because this is barroom crap. Slime beneath the counter.
Life has become both longing and a fucking mess.
People have drunk me... see, now I'm just a dance,
Sparkling only under the smoky light of the tavern.
But there's no epic story here, and all the reasons are shoddy verses.
People force reasons. And they're sad because they're sad.
Stuck in the natural clay that leads them here
To sit and hiss and invent their own reasons.
There's not even a tragedy to give cause.
A non-event. You pass through. You're all like shit.
And you're your own God. Sick of people.
Tired of yourself and worn to the core.
They talk about the land, then they talk about their pay...
And so do I. And that's where I stopped getting younger.
You have three banks, and suddenly it's not enough.
Fewer crossroads, just a quiet road through Mordor.
And you don't remember when you pulled a condom over life,
And when you so indifferently fused with your skin.
And you smile, you live, everything's cool, everything's going well.
Just, a nameless sadness lives its comfort within you.
Bottled synesthesia. A dance for wine flies.
And the guilt that you couldn't do better.

At twenty, you look at the future through binoculars.
It's not good, but it will be better when you get there.
And you grab through that crossroads, and you were born for everything!
Between you and the future – an endless field of will.
The great sowing of hope. Running through the calendar.
Effort, strength, faith – but just one blink,
And boom – the lenses of your binoculars are shattered,
Because they hit the future. And it's not a pretty bang.
The future is here, it's this, and it's not much.
The great harvest of thorns, pierced flesh.
All sorts of things leak from the holes, but hope leaks the fastest.
And so, crippled, you stare at the circus from hell.
Brainwashed citizens, casting for the Walking Dead;
Leaders and rulers playing Game of Thrones;
Those who fit into everything essentially say – nothing.
Without establishment, tabloidization shines.
They mourn the nineties, with tranquilizers.
Kids celebrate the nineties, with trAnquilizers.
There was a momentum for takeoff, but it was all just a trip.
The crossroads narrowed to the alley you walk.
Balloons burst on the floor after the party.
A record that skips. Exhausted faces.
A cigarette that smokes me. Some soul in the glass.
And the guilt that I won't know how to die better.