- 29 Avg 2006, 20:16
#562552
Evo je i na izvornom jeziku :
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Wystan Hugh Auden
Originally posted by АлександарAleksandre, obozavam ovu pesmu
Zaustavite sve satove, iskljucite telefon,
I psima da ne laju dajte socnu kost,
Utisajte klavire i uz potmulo dobovanje
Iznesite kovceg, nek narikace pridju.
Nek avioni kruze jececi nad glavom
sarajuci po nebu poruku On je Mrtav.
Nek masne od krepa stave oko belih vratova golubova,
Nek saobracajci nose crne pamucne rukavice.
Bio je moj Sever, moj Jug, moj Istok i Zapad.
Moja radna sedmica i nedeljni odmor,
Moje podne, moja ponoc, moj govor, moj pev;
Mislio sam da ljubav ce trajati vecno: prevarih se.
Zvezde sada nisu pozeljne; pogasite ih sve;
Spakujte Mesec, skinite Suncu plast;
Prospite nekud okean, zbrisite sume:
Jer necem dobrom da vodi ne moze nista sad.
W. H. Auden
Evo je i na izvornom jeziku :
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Wystan Hugh Auden
