© Carmen Ezgeta

Blazeno jutro koje padas
  u svijetlom slapu u tu sobu,
vec nema rane da mi zadas,
  pocivam mrtav u svom grobu.

  Mozda ces ipak da potpiris
pepelom iskru zapretanu —
  jer evo, trome grudi siris
ceznucem suncu, jorgovanu.

Dijelis mi neke tihe slasti
  kad o tvom zaru vidim knjige
na polici — i cijeli tmasti
  vidik te sobe pune brige.

  Za mene ipak nesto fali
u ovoj uzi bez raspeca,
  na dragoj usni osmijeh mali,
u casi vode kita cvijeca.

Blazeno jutro koje padas
  sa snopom svjetla u tu sobu,
vec nema smrti da mi zadas,
  no vrati ljubav ovom Jobu.

Tin Ujević

Tin Ujevic

(1891 - 1955)                             

Blessed morning, you cascade
  Roaring lightfalls in this room.
How can pain make me afraid,
  Dead already, in my tomb?

  Well, perhaps you can ignite
Buried sparks from ash and dust
  Since the lilac and the light
Still swell longing in your breast.

When I lift your veil, you show
  Lines of quiet, forms of grace
In shelves of books, row on row —
  Then the whole room's careworn face.

  Yet, there's something still I miss
From this crib without a cross,
  A smile on darling lips, the kiss
Of flowers in a waterglass.

Blessed morning, while you dress
  This room in your translucent robe,
I have no fear of death's caress.
  Only give love back to this Job.