A Melancholy Song

A Melancholy Song

By Milan Rakić

It’s the time when our hair turns grey,
And our senses gradually go numb.
And so we stand pallid with dismay,
As our old age is heralded by a drum.

Yet inside of me he never dies,
That follower of young Werther who
Pines under the moonlight and cries
At ev’ry mention of old emotions true!

O, I well know the old flame and joy
Have faded and will be no more.
But, no one can our love destroy:
It changes, but is alive evermore.

Now our love is noble and so pure,
As if imbu’d with moonlight. It smells
Like a dead rose, a memory obscure,
In a book on which no one e’er dwells.

O, my sweet beloved, let me rest my
Weary head in your lap, and listen to
Now, as purple hues light up the sky
And the eve unfolds its black wing, too

Like in a seashell the roar of the sea,
In our souls, where henceforth will grow
A string of woes and old-age misery,
The soft murmur of passion of long ago.

Translation from the Serbian by:
Ljiljana Parović

SETNA PESMA

Došlo je vreme kad nam kosa sedi,
I naša čula postepeno grube.
Stojimo tako skrušeni i bledi
Dok našu starost objavljuju trube.

No još u meni iščeznuo nije
Sledbenik mladog Vertera, što sanja
Pri mesečini, i što suze lije
Uz svaki spomen starog osećanja!

O znam to dobro, stari oganj da je
Nestao, da ga neće biti više.
No našu ljubav nema ko da zbriše:
Ona se menja, ali uvek traje.

Sad nam je ljubav otmena i čedna,
Ko mesečinom prožeta. Miriše
Ko cvet sasušen, uspomena jedna,
U knjizi što se već ne čita više.

O daj mi, draga, da na krilo tvoje
Položim glavu umornu, da sada
Slušam, dok blješte na zapadu boje
I veče kao crno krilo pada,

Kao u školjci huku morskih vala
U našoj duši, gde će odsad rasti
Niz crnih beda i staračkih zala,
Prigušen šumor nekadanje strasti…

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