Marko Kutlić - Budiš me versuri traducere în engleză

R.I.P.

He was so kind, ha!
 

You're so pathetic1
how bad you were
I will never understand
But don't worry, it's over
 

RIP
Let what I loved you rest in peace
I don't wanna see you by a long shot
I already buried you
let the mariachi sound
I will sing out loud
What was ours, RIP
 

Not even praying you're gonna be back
Go to the afterlife and forget me
keep all your flower bouquets for yourself
they don't resurrect the dead
or heal pains
 

Now I drink a coffee
Maybe an irish one
I've already cheered up
 

I suffered for you
I cried for you, oh
It's not that I talk thrash about you
but you really went too far
 

You're so pathetic1
how bad you were
I will never understand
But don't worry, it's over
 

RIP
Let what I loved you rest in peace
I don't wanna see you by a long shot
I already buried you
let the mariachi sound
I will sing out loud
 

What was ours, RIP
Not even praying you're gonna be back
Go to the afterlife and forget me because
 

Not here or in the afterlife
I would come back with you
This is the good-bye
Our thing's over
Not here or in the afterlife
I would come back with you
This is your good-bye
 

Bye, bye!
 

(mwuah)
 

(Take care now!)
 

• Not literal, but the equivalent.

The dead of February

Amnesty doesn't help the shot
no one gives life to the dead
Who lately screamed under the gallows
will never lift their head ever again
 

But among us in the entire country
walk the dead comrades
The ones that died by executioner's hand
The one that the class-enemy shot
 

They are among us, when we work and rest
and they hear Protests and Complaints
They measure and weigh exactly, what we do
and they control the deed of our days
 

At the stamping points in workshop and factory
they stand silently, but connected to life
around their neck hangs the executioners rope
and they show the bleeding wounds
 

They count the men in barracks and office
and the ones that brag in ballrooms
they stand silently, but engulfed in hatred
and nod 'you will pay!'
 

They live in illegal word
in darkness of groups in cells
Their soul did not rot in the graves
it burns to light up our night
 

In it's light stands the rude violence
which shall be broken forever
The voice of the dead gets jingling and cold
their verdict shall be spoken to today's
 

The new logos is emerging

The new logos is emerging in which everything will be dyed
in the new flame, mind and body, solid steel...
 

The earth has been sufficiently fertilized by human flesh...
thick and fruitful let not our lands
dry out from this rich and deep bath of blood
deeper than the first rain
 

Tomorrow each of us will go out with twelve pairs of oxen
to plow this blood soaked land...
May the laurel bloom on the land and the tree of life take root
and may our vines spread to the ends of the inhabited earth...
 

Forward, children, the sun does not want to rise on its own...
Push with knees and chest, to lift it out of the mud
push with chest and knees, to lift it out of the bloody earth
push with hands and head, so that the sun may shine its Spirit!
 

Our Dialect

It’s really not true that dialects
are only good for some chit-chatting
after a lunch with endless courses
and after guzzling down cartloads of liters.1
 

It’s using the dialect, that poor people moan
when they are begging for some bread on the street
that we think about our hometown, about our homeland2
that we rejoice and suffer for our children.
 

It’s using Bergamasque that we cry for a friend,
if an evil fate made him miserable,
not to mention [how much we cry] if he’s gone to Heaven.
 

And if there’s a scumbag, be him white- or red-skinned,
the most honest and sharpest judgment
is always the one bursting from your throat.3
 

• 1. of wine
• 2. paìs = country, homeland town, village.
  contrade = streets districts, neighborhoods lands.
• 3. That is, things said in one’s own mother tongue are always more authentic and emotional.