Текст и перевод песни Djordje Balasevic - Stih na asfaltu

Stih na asfaltu

Da mi je još jedared proči Ilicom
Pa da bećarac nasvrljam cirilicom
Teško da bi drugi mogli rešiti taj hijeroglif,
Al bi Neko znao da sam tu
Cipelice jedne bele zastale bi i prevele
Stih na asfaltu

Jednom ću u baladu da se prerušim
U refren što se Tamo jos zapevuši
Pa da minem Starom Vlaškom
Da joj kosu sklonim daskom
I za uglom hitro zamaknem
Da pred nosom strašnog Bana, kao senka Petra Pana
Kapu namaknem

Preko krova i mansarde, ošamućen daljinama
Da ostavim struk lavande medu njenim haljinama

Lagano se bore nanose Malo šta je još po starom
Al okice moje šokice mađijaju istim žarom

Ladica đinđuva po nebu prosuta
U jesen vetar primi miris Bosuta
Isprva mi nije nista al več posle par gemišta
Dopre izdaleka lagan prim
Praćen tercom suvog lišća s jednog hrasta kraj Belišća
Stidljivo, sasvim

Što sam joj kog vraga dao belu ružu samoniklu
Što li sam je povezao onaj krug na mom biciklu

Lagano se bore nanose Malo šta je još po starom
Al okice moje sokice mađijaju istim žarom

Stanza on the Asphalt

If I could just walk down Ilica once more
So that I could scrawl rascalities in Cyrillic script
It's unlikely that others could solve that hieroglyph,
But someone would know that I was here
Little white slippers would stop and translate
Stanza on the Asphalt

One day I'll disguise myself as a ballad
In a refrain which is still sung over there
So that I can bypass the Old Vlaška
To brush her hair aside with a board
And quickly hide around the corner
To doff my hat like the shadow of Peter Pan
In front of the terrible Ban's nose,

Across the roof and mansard, dazed by distances
To leave a sprig of lavender among her dresses

The layers slowly wear away Little remains as it was
But my eyes, my little eyes, conjure with the same passion

A little boat of marigolds scattered across the sky
In autumn the wind takes up the scent of the Bosut
At first nothing, but a little later, after a few drinks
A gentle breeze arrives from afar
Accompanied by a third of dry foliage from an oak near Belišća
Very softly

Why the devil did I give her a wild white rose
Why on earth did I attach it to that circle on my bike

The layers slowly wear away Little remains as it was
But my eyes, my little eyes, conjure with the same passion