Galicia - Đorđe Balašević

Pred zoru je sa njine strane obično muk

Pod velom magle zvecka osmi kozački puk

I svu noć mi inje kamuflira šinjel uz polegli brest

U inat ću i ovo pismo poslati

Znam: «ime i adresa nisu poznati»

Dok tikvan-poštar ne skonta

Ko to čeka sa fronta, kakvu dobru vest

I tek da znaš, ovo na slici je naoko pitomi pejsaž Galicije

Al' mira ni čas, sve živo pali na nas

Fotograf jedini metkove špara

Oberst kao lud olovo rasipa

Fotograf jedva katkad okine sa nasipa

Na nadošloj Visli, se soldati stisli

I svima su nam pomisli, daleko

U sumrak je sa njine strane obično žal

Zatuži ađinokaja ko ranjeni ždral

Al' postane krotka kad drmne je votka, onako «na belo»

Pod mojom šapkom lavovi se baškare

U snu mi pleteš beli šal za maškare

Sva se pobrka pređa

Kad te obgrlim s' leđa, kao violončelo

I tek da znaš, mesec u žici je

Zvone na večernje zvona Galicije

I neka mi to ne uzme nebo za zlo

Al' ti si jedino čemu se molim

Brinuću već ja, nemoj ti brinuti

Ma, da sam 'teo, već sam stoput mogo ginuti

Dok otiče Visla, natraške, van smisla

I kreću jata pokisla, Daleko

Before dawn, there is usually silence on her part

The eighth Cossack regiment rattled under the veil of fog

And all night my frost camouflages my overcoat with a fallen elm tree

I will send this letter in spite of myself

I know: "name and address unknown"

Until the pumpkin-postman understands

Who is waiting for that from the front, what good news

And just so you know, this in the picture is a seemingly tame landscape of Galicia

But there is no peace, everything is burning on us

The photographer is the only bullet saver

Oberst wastes like crazy lead

The photographer barely shoots from the embankment

On the coming Vistula, the soldiers shrank

And we all have thoughts, far away

At dusk, she is usually sorry

He mourned the adjinokaja like a wounded crane

But she becomes meek when she shakes her vodka, "on white"

Under my hat, lions roam

In my dream you are knitting a white masquerade scarf

All the confusion is over

When I hug you from behind, like a cello

And just so you know, the moon is in the wire

It rings the evening bells of Galicia

And don't let that take heaven for evil

But you are the only thing I pray for

I'll take care of it, don't worry

If I had died, I could have died a hundred times

As the Vistula flows, backwards, out of meaning

And the flocks are getting wet, Far away