Drvena pesma - Đorđe Balašević

Snio sam nocas, nikad prezaljenu stvar,

mog drvenog konjica;

kanap i zvuk tockica, vrbice zvon.

«Za mnom, verni Sanco moj,

u pohodu na Nespokoj.»

Snio sam jos i svoju prvu tamburu,

kako k’o nocna dama,

iz juznog Amsterdama.

Iz izloga mene klinca zavodi,

na smrtne grehe navodi.

'Di je to drvo raslo,

od kog je tesana?

Da l' se pod njime

neko, nekada ljubio?

Otkud u njemu izvor,

svih mojih pesama?

Da l' je to znao

onaj ko ga je dubio?

'Di je to drvo raslo,

vrh kojih bregova?

Da l' nas je ista,

kisa mladjane zalila?

Ko mu je grane kres’o,

mati ga njegova?

Cija je ruka lisca,

s jeseni palila?

Da znam.

Snio sam onda krevet, sav u cipkama;

obesnu igru vatre, sklopljene salukatre.

Na uzglavlju ruza u intarziji,

pod kojom smo se mazili.

Snio sam sanduk, crni, srebrom okovan,

novembar, izmaglica i kvartet dragih lica.

Maleni cun nasred luke pokisle,

da me u vecnost otisne.

'Di je to drvo raslo,

spram kojih vetrova?

Da l' je pod njime,

neko za nekim zalio?

Sto ga je grom obis’o,

mati ga Petrova?

Ko je u sake pljun’o,

pa ga strovalio?

Jedina moja mila, sto si me budila;

bio sam tako blizu, nalicja vremena.

Taji se jedno drvo u mojim grudima;

gde li ce nesto nici iz toga semena…

Da znam.

I dreamed last night, a never-before-seen thing,

my wooden cavalry;

rope and the sound of dots, willow bells.

"Follow me, my faithful Sanco,

on the march on Nespokoj. "

I also dreamed of my first tambourine,

like a night lady,

from south Amsterdam.

From the window I was seduced by a kid,

allegations of mortal sins.

'Where did that tree grow,

from whom is tesana?

Is it under him

someone, once loved?

Where does the source come from,

all my songs?

Did he know that?

the one who beat him?

'Where did that tree grow,

the top of which hills?

Are we the same,

rain watered the young?

Who gave him the branches,

his mother?

Whose hand is the leaf,

lit up in the fall?

To know.

I dreamed then of a bed, all in lace;

a hanging game of fire, folded salukatras.

At the head of a rose in marquetry,

under which we cuddled.

I dreamed of a chest, black, silver-chained,

November, Mist and Quartet of Dear Faces.

A small cun in the middle of a sour port,

to imprint me into eternity.

'Where did that tree grow,

against which winds?

Is it under him,

someone complained about someone?

As lightning struck him,

Petrova's mother?

Who spat in sake,

so strovalio him?

My only darling, that you woke me up;

I was so close, the back of time.

There is a tree hidden in my chest;

where will something come from that seed…

To know.