Povečerje - Arsen Dedic

Ja ne znam zašto svako veče

U strahu čekam da se javi

Glas jedne trube, i da poteče

U mojoj krvi, u mojoj glavi

Djetinjstvo moje kraj kasarne

U ovoj trubi još se krije

I mrtva usta iz vojarne

U noći viču da netko bdije

Kad čujem trubu tog svirača

Što stoji negdje na mrtvoj straži

Ja znam da netko usred plača

I mene zove, i mene traži

Ne budi, trubo, to što ode

Na svakom grobu raste trava

I ispod zemlje, ispod vode

Tvoj drug već davno mrtav spava

I neće čuti to što sviraš

I neće znati što ga zove

Ti samo stare rane diraš

Ti samo budiš mrtve snove

Dok spava grad pod rukom neba

Dok spava sve što spati treba

Ti zalud zoveš iz tog mraka

Imena davnih ožiljaka

I tu preda mnom opet idu

U dugom redu kao četa

Svi davni dani mog života

Sva davno izgubljena ljeta

I što da počnem, kamo sada

Sa godinama sto se ruše

Kroz trg i ulice mog grada

Kroz kosti moje vjetar puše

I svake noći još se javlja

Taj glas od sjene i od plača

I neka ruka trubu stavlja

Na mrtva usta… mog svirača

I don't know why every night

I'm waiting for him to answer in fear

The voice of one trumpet, and to flow

In my blood, in my head

My childhood near the barracks

He is still hiding in this trumpet

And a dead mouth from the barracks

At night they shout that someone is watching

When I hear that musician's trumpet

Which stands somewhere on the dead guard

I know someone in the middle is crying

He's calling me too, and he's looking for me

Don't be, trumpet, what's going on

Grass grows on every grave

And underground, under water

Your friend has been asleep for a long time

And they won't hear what you're playing

And he won't know what he's calling

You're just touching old wounds

You just wake up dead dreams

As the city sleeps under the hand of heaven

While sleeping everything you need to sleep

You call in vain from that darkness

Names of ancient scars

And here they go before me again

In a long line as a company

All the old days of my life

All the long-lost summers

And what to start, where now

With the years that are falling apart

Through the square and the streets of my city

The wind blows through my bones

And he still calls every night

That voice of shadow and of weeping

And let the hand put the trumpet

On the dead mouth of my musician