Mora, Abdulah Sidran

Što to radiš sine?

Sanjam, majko. Sanjam, majko, kako pjevam,

a ti me pitaš, u mom snu: što to činiš, sinko?

O čemu, u snu, pjevaš, sine?

Pjevam, majko, kako sam imao kuću.

A sad nemam kuće. O tome pjevam, majko.

Kako sam, majko, imao glas, i jezik svoj imao.

A sad ni glasa, ni jezika nemam.

Glasom, koga nemam, u jeziku, koga nemam, 

o kući, koju nemam, ja pjevam pjesmu majko.

Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,

That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it’s age-old pain,

It’s ancient tale of being apart or together.

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,

Clad in the light of a pole - star piercing the darkness of time:

You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.

At the heart of time, love of one for another.

We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same

Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell—

Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you

The love of all man’s days both past and forever:

Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.

The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours— 

And the songs of every poet past and forever.

Come, and Be my Baby, Maya Angelou

 

The highway is full of big cars

going nowhere fast

And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn

Some people wrap their lies around a cocktail glass

And you sit wondering

where you’re going to turn

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow

But others say we’ve got a week or two

The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror

And you sit wondering

What you’re gonna do.

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

Sonnet 131 [I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion], Francesco Petrarca

I'd sing of Love in such a novel fashion

that from her cruel side I would draw by force

a thousand sighs a day, kindling again

in her cold mind a thousand high desires;

 

I'd see her lovely face transform quite often

her eyes grow wet and more compassionate,

like one who feels regret, when it's too late,

for causing someone's suffering by mistake;

 

And I'd see scarlet roses in the snows,

tossed by the breeze, discover ivory

that turns to marble those who see it near them;

 

All this I'd do because I do not mind

my discontentment in this one short life,

but glory rather in my later fame.