Gloria Aeterna - Jantar

Suze frustracije, teku niz lice do hladnog poda

Drhtave ruke razbacuju sve bilješke sa stola

U kojima leže slova i formule kao dokaz

Da on, ne može biti niti malo poput Boga

U noćima boli, čuju se urlici sa dvora

Kruna n sjaji k’o prije, ništa nije kao onda

Izdaju ga podočnjaci i miris njegovog znoja

Bolst skida ga sa trona i postavlja ispred groba

Portret iz doba stare slave sa zlatnim okvirom

Više nije mu sličan jer slika isijava život

A on ima još malo, al' ne priznaje nikom

Svoje blijedo lice smrti pokušava sakrit' šminkom

Ne pokazuje milost, jer ona je mrtva u njemu

Svoje kraljevstvo i dalje sad tjera u jad i bijedu

Jer on je 100% siguran, da neko na svijetu

Ima znanje da prevari prirodu i slomi vjeru

Zato glasnici u prvom svjetlu, odrede pravac

Do mudraca koji čuvaju spise sumerskih tajna

Vojskom šalje sve poluge zlata i čak još danas

Otputuju po recepte vječnosti pohlepnog kralja

Nakon 7 tjedana, još kojih nekol’ko dana

Od 4 kraljevska glasnika, 2 došla su natrag

Spuštenih glava prolaze kroz vrata do glavnog oltara

Iza kojeg sjedi bolest sama sa očima pakla

Sluša priče o izdaji, ne može doći do zraka

Počne plakat k’o nikad, fakat, čim istinu sazna

Nisu došli do cilja, a vojska je prestala jahat'

Ubila je dvojicu i drugu poslala je nazad

Do vladara željnog moći i života bez kraja

Da prenesu poruku i objasne kaj se događa

Oni vratit će se brzo kad njega dostigne kazna

Čim on spoji se zemljom, vodoravno poput gmaza

I zaklopi oči, al' ne da trepne ili spava

Već kad duša mu se slomi u komade poput stakla

Čim organi se ugase k’o i večernja lampa

I bace ga u raku duboku k’o Marijanska brazda

Zlato vratit će narodu, jer narodu pripada

Da osvijetle živote u ovom kraljevstvu mraka

Do temelja će srušit dvorac nazvan «Vječna slava»

S tim će napokon prekinut administraciju vraga

«Oprostite visosti», svaka nada je nestala

Ruka stala je drhtat' i predstava je prestala

U odrazu na kaležu pojavljuje se lešina

Osjeti bol u prsima i nađe se na leđima

Polako on postaje hladan da lakše prijeđe na

Prebivalište duša koje isto je k’o pećina

Osuđen na vječnost, al' ne pripada vječnima

Jer svako živ polako njegovo lice briše iz sjećanja

«A u istome gradu ispod starog kamenog mosta živio je on: gladni pjesnik.

Sanjao je o mjestu gdje nema gladi, bolesti i siromaštva.

Teško mu je bilo

razabrati je li riječ o snu ili halucinaciji.

Na kraju, bilo je sasvim svejedno,

jer ono što je vidio nije bilo stvarno.

Svakih nekoliko noći na most su

dolazili kraljevi ljudi koji su ubijali pobunjenike i bacali ih u rijeku.

A da bi on svaki puta, iznova razočaran u svijetu kakvom živi krenuo krvlju

pisati stihove o svojim snovima.»

Bio je, dio jedne sredine ispod nebeske tmine

Gdje je narod gladan, a na dvoru cijede se dinje

Jede se, pije, i kralju jebe se di je puk jer

Siromašan luta dok aristokrati vide put

Nazad na protagonista, nije mu ostalo ništa

Osim mjesta za počinak ispod mosta dok kiša

Pere zločin sa starog kamenog pločnika

Očni kapci postanu teški kad padne noć i tad

Uplovi u nove snove o zemlji nekoj

Gdje iz vedrog neba cure svježi med i mlijeko

Ne bi rek’o da je san jer hrana ima okus

A miris je stvaran k’o i voda iz bunara

U to koraci čuvara, spuste ga iz ovog raja

U pakao siromaštva i bolesti rodnog grada

On otvara oči, razočaran kroči naprijed

Ni ne sluteći da će nastupiti noćni zaplet

Kočija se zaustavlja na samoj sredini mosta

Sakrio se iza stabla, ali ipak vidi dosta

«Što sad ovdje se događa?»

zapita se, «Grozna svađa»

Nagađa, razaznajući dva čuvara iz grada i

Građanina, valjda ima grijeh koji ne želi priznat nikom

Pomisli, pa čuje nazivaju ga izdajnikom

Iznad njih k’o da sijevaju vatrene munje

On zove upomoć, pa mu govore: «Sad te ne čuje

Ni majka, ni uljezi s kojima snuješ planove protiv krune.»

Vežu mu dlanove, pa noge, a on se kune

Da nije ništa skrivio, samo je živio iskreno

Punim plućima, kažu mu: «Budi kuš!»

i tad

Kao od šale mu oštrim noževima raspore grkljan

Gurnu ga s mosta pa kraj rijeke padne dolje mrtav

On je drhtao promatrajući djelo vraga

Blijed od straha promuca «Osvetit ću se jednog dana»

Pa krene piskarat, duša vene, um izgara

Dobri duh iz grada stvara paragrafe ljudskih jada

Zove mrtve perom natopljenim krvlju nove žrtve

Opisujući zločine ove jalove crkve

Pa stavi novi naslov: «Zemlja vječnog blagostanja»

I stane nizati stihove o mjestu kakvo sanja

Dvjesto takvih strana znače nešto čak i nama

Makar će mnogi reći da ih je teško shvatit danas:

«Povijest piše umjetnost, umjetnik piše povijest

Biće tone u vječnoj nadi da bit će bolje

U cik zore vidim prljavštinu naših srca

Pa pokušavam upitati svoje zašto kuca.»

Izdahnuo je mlad ispod mosta jedno veče'

Netko reče da je jadan ost’o nedorečen

Ali Gloria Aeterna, skup krvlju pisanih pjesama

Ostala je živjet, a kralj je nestao bez traga

Tears of frustration, flowing down my face to the cold floor

Shaking hands scatter all the notes from the table

In which letters and formulas lie as evidence

Yes, he can't be anything like God

In the nights of pain, screams are heard from the yard

The crown shines like before, nothing is like then

His dark circles and the smell of his sweat betray him

Bolst takes him off the throne and places him in front of the grave

A portrait from the old glory days with a golden frame

He is no longer like him because the image radiates life

And he still has a little, but he doesn't admit it to anyone

He tries to hide his pale face of death with make-up

He shows no mercy, because it is dead in him

He is still driving his kingdom into misery and misery

Because he is 100% sure that someone in the world

He has the knowledge to cheat nature and break faith

That is why the messengers at first light set the direction

To the sages who keep the writings of Sumerian secrets

He sends all the gold bars to the army and even today

They travel to get the greedy king's recipes for eternity

After 7 weeks, a few more days

Of the 4 royal messengers, 2 came back

Heads bowed, they pass through the door to the main altar

Behind which sits the disease alone with the eyes of hell

He listens to stories of betrayal, he can't get air

He starts crying like never before, but as soon as he learns the truth

They did not reach their goal, and the army stopped riding'

She killed two and sent the other back

To a ruler eager for power and life without end

To convey the message and explain what is happening

They will return quickly when the punishment reaches him

As soon as he connects with the ground, horizontally like a reptile

And he closes his eyes, but not to blink or sleep

Already when his soul breaks into pieces like glass

As soon as the organs go out like an evening lamp

And they throw him into a hole as deep as the Mariana Trench

He will return the gold to the people, because it belongs to the people

To illuminate lives in this kingdom of darkness

The castle called "Eternal Glory" will be demolished to its foundations.

With that, he will finally end the devil's administration

«Forgive your highness», all hope is gone

The hand stopped shaking and the show stopped

A corpse appears in the reflection of the chalice

He feels a pain in his chest and finds himself on his back

Slowly he becomes cold to more easily transition to

The abode of souls is like a cave

Condemned to eternity, but does not belong to the eternal

Because everyone alive is slowly erasing his face from memory

«And in the same city, under the old stone bridge, he lived: a hungry poet.

He dreamed of a place where there is no hunger, disease and poverty.

It was difficult for him

to discern whether it is a dream or a hallucination.

In the end, it didn't matter,

because what he saw was not real.

They are on the bridge every few nights

the king's men came and killed the rebels and threw them into the river.

And that every time, disappointed again and again in the world he lives in, he would start with blood

write lyrics about your dreams."

He was, part of an environment under the darkness of the sky

Where the people are hungry, and melons are squeezed in the yard

It is eaten, drunk, and the king is fucked by the people

The pauper wanders while the aristocrats see the way

Back to the protagonist, he has nothing left

Except for a place to rest under the bridge while it rains

It washes the crime off the old stone pavement

Eyelids become heavy when night falls and then

Sail into new dreams about a certain country

Where fresh honey and milk flow from the clear sky

I wouldn't say it's a dream because food has taste

And the smell is real, like water from a well

Into it, the guardian's steps, brought him down from this paradise

Into the hell of poverty and sickness of the hometown

He opens his eyes, steps forward disappointed

Not even suspecting that the plot of the night will occur

The carriage stops in the middle of the bridge

He hid behind a tree, but still sees a lot

«What is happening here now?»

he asked himself, "Terrible quarrel"

He guesses, making out two guards from the town and

A citizen, I guess he has a sin that he does not want to admit to anyone

Think, then hear him called a traitor

Above them, as if they were sowing fiery lightning

He calls for help, so they tell him: "He can't hear you now

Neither your mother, nor the intruders with whom you plan against the crown.»

They tie his hands, then his feet, and he swears

That he didn't hide anything, he just lived honestly

At the top of their lungs, they tell him: "Be good!"

and then

As if as a joke, they slit his throat with sharp knives

They push him off the bridge and by the river he falls down dead

He trembled as he watched the work of the devil

Pale from fear, he stammers "I will take revenge one day"

So the peskarat starts, the soul withers, the mind burns

A good spirit from the city creates paragraphs of human misery

He calls the dead with a pen soaked in the blood of a new victim

Describing the crimes of this barren church

So put a new title: «Land of Eternal Prosperity»

And he stopped writing verses about the place he dreams of

Two hundred such pages mean something even to us

Although many will say that it is difficult to understand them today:

"History writes art, the artist writes history

It will sink in the eternal hope that it will get better

At the crack of dawn I see the filth of our hearts

So I'm trying to ask mine why it's knocking."

He died young under the bridge one evening'

Someone said that he was a poor man

But Gloria Aeterna, a collection of songs written in blood

She survived, and the king disappeared without a trace