Hear, the moon weeps, young and yellow.
Listen to me, darling, the last time.
I will die, so when you want me,
do not shout my name on the sunset.
Listen to the wind from the leaves, faded, yellow.
It will sing to you:
that I loved autumn,
not your passions, nor your naked ankles,
but a grip of the branches,
ruddy, withered.
And when your heart hurts for me
hug and kiss the branch that fade.
Ah, no one has honor and passion,
nor flame enough to love me:
Only Lombardy poplars slim
and the pines lonely, proud
Only Lombardy poplars slim
and the pines, lonely, proud.
Written in Potkamien, in Galicia, 1915
Listen to me, darling, the last time.
I will die, so when you want me,
do not shout my name on the sunset.
Listen to the wind from the leaves, faded, yellow.
It will sing to you:
that I loved autumn,
not your passions, nor your naked ankles,
but a grip of the branches,
ruddy, withered.
And when your heart hurts for me
hug and kiss the branch that fade.
Ah, no one has honor and passion,
nor flame enough to love me:
Only Lombardy poplars slim
and the pines lonely, proud
Only Lombardy poplars slim
and the pines, lonely, proud.
Written in Potkamien, in Galicia, 1915
Miloš Crnjanski (1893 - 1977) Serbia
Translated by Gordana Janjušević Leković
Translated by Gordana Janjušević Leković
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