Mižerja - Oliver Dragojevic

I bez zlata i bez luši

Sva su blaga ti u duši

Kad ogrije te jubav,

Puno sunca i tepline,

Pa se srce nebu vine,

U ditinjstvu bez suza.

Malo šoldi, puno vire,

U toj jubavi bez mire,

I vagun dobre voje,

U kantunu puno mista,

Misal je ka arja čista,

Pa pišen pisme svoje.

Mižerja, mižerja…

Mižerja, mižerja…

Viruj, viruj, pismo moja,

Ti jedina znaš di san ostavi dušu,

Miruj, miruj, pismo moja,

Jer kasno je sad, ladni vitri već pušu…

Mižerja, mižerja,

Tek pusta mižerja…

Kad bi partile ferate,

Strepija san, «stari», za te,

Ta briga se ne gasi.

Zgrbjena si, majko, stala,

Bjankariju tuju prala,

Pobilile ti vlasi.

Jedna pisma iz đardina

Smantala je vašeg sina,

On cili vik je slidi,

Zlatnin nožen posrid srca

Probola ga, neka grca,

Nek cili šug iscidi.

Mižerja, mižerja…

Mižerja, mižerja…

Viruj, viruj, pismo moja,

Ti jedina znaš kako boli lipota,

Miruj, miruj, pismo moja,

Jer vidit ćeš kad zbrojiš konte života —

Mižerja, mižerja,

Tek pusta mižerja.

And without gold and without lushi

All treasures are in your soul

When love warms you,

Lots of sun and warmth,

So the heart of heaven rises,

In childhood without tears.

A little shit, a lot of boils,

In that love without peace,

And a wagon of good warfare,

There are a lot of places in the cantonment,

The thought is ka arja pure,

So he wrote his letters.

Miser, miser…

Miser, miser…

Whirl, whirl, my letter,

You are the only one who knows where a dream leaves a soul,

Rest, rest, my letter,

Because it's late now, the cold winds are already blowing…

Miser, miser,

Running a meager…

If you were partying ferrata,

Strepija san, «stari», za te,

That concern is not extinguished.

You're hunched over, mother, stop,

Bjankari's foreign laundry,

Your hair is white.

One letter from the garden

She thought of your son,

He cili vik is slidi,

Golden foot in the middle of the heart

She stabbed him, let him cramp,

Let chili shugu squeeze out.

Miser, miser…

Miser, miser…

Whirl, whirl, my letter,

You're the only one who knows how painful lipota is,

Rest, rest, my letter,

For you will see when you add up the accounts of life -

Miser, miser,

Just let go of misery.