Ovid

Ovid

By Vojislav Ilić

In faraway Pontus where the ancient pines adorn
The Tomitan grim country, the land of mist and snow,
Publius sits pensive. As his grey hair limp does flow
Down the harp, he broods forlorn.

O’er his grey head, as the waves sullenly roar,
An eagle boldly soars and spreads its wings, yet
Thro’ the snow-clad cliffs, chasing a terrible boar,
Courageously glides a Geat.

The sky, earth and sea, all is veiled by the haze…
And with him the wind blowing from the sea sighs;
While the grey-haired exile, with a pining gaze,
Of the Tiber and noble Rome does fantasize.

The sun dies in the mist. The wind whistles shrill,
And with its chilly wings ruffles his grey hair,
And softly touches the strings as they dolefully trill,
Like a dying voice, thro’ the air.

O proud, lecherous Rome! His tears you did not see,
Yet, he eternally lives and you are but a mummy.
O, empress of the gloomy ages, where’s his tomb blest?
Under the dull, sullen sky of the barbarian Geats,
Is his place of eternal rest.

Translation from the Serbian by:
Ljiljana Parović

Ovidije

Na surom dalekom Pontu gde borje stoletno krasi
Tomitske predele mračne, u zemlji magle i snega,
Publije zamišljen sedi. Na harfu, pored njega,
Sede mu pale vlasi.

Vali sumorno bruje. Nad sedom njegovom glavom
Orao odvažno kliče, šŷmi i širi lêt;
A kroz urvine snežne, goneći strašnoga vepra,
Junački zviždi Get.

I nebo, zemlja i more, sve se u magli skriva…
I vetar, što s mora dŷše, uzdiše tiho s njim;
A sêdi prognanik, zanet, tibarske obale sniva,
I s njima gordi Rim.

Sunce se u magli gasi. A vetar zviždi i tone,
I mraznim krilima svojim leluja sedu vlas,
I tiho dotiče strune, i strune sumorno zvone,
Kô umirući glas.

O gordi, razvratni Rime! Ti suze vidô mu nisi,
No zato on večno živi, a večna mumija ti si.
Carice vekova tavnih, gde mu je grobnica sveta?
Pod mračnim, sumornim nebom varvarskih
i divljih Geta.

 

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