own translation

Three tails of Ljubljana dragon

Today is the Slovenian Cultural Holiday, and conveniently, and surprisingly for me (even though apparently since 1991), it’s a day off work. (Another case of “If you live long enough.”) So I bring you three Slovenian tails, or better tales, or better raps, since in Slovenian “rep” = a tail.

The first two have stuck in my memory after hearing them for the first time on the radio when I was last in Slovenia, whereas the last one is an old favourite. Love me some rap/hiphop.

First, a story about an actual elderly woman (in the video portrayed by a well-known actress) who lives in the same building as the rapper Rok Trkaj and who must walk the stairs without the elevator despite her osteoporosis, so he often carries her bags for her and he’d promised her to write a rap about old people for a change. And he did.

I’ll always remember him because he walked over half of Slovenia or more to promote one of his records, and by the line from an epic hip hop battle: “Ti si morski sadež in tole tlele je bla rižota.” (“You are a frutta di mare and this right now was a risotto.”) Can’t beat my feeding preferences. (Even though in this battle, and in many more, he was beaten by the king of Slovenian hiphop, N’toko. I’ve translated his song “I’m a Slovenian” here.)

The second song is calling young people to

“…go out, even if it rains.
Go out, even if it snows.
I’d like to return to those times
when time was running more slowly
when in rough times nobody was reaching for their phones
because we didn’t have any
and yet we still connected
we shared good memories by talking to each other
sunny days we spent in the street, on the bike
images remained in our minds without a single like.
Technology has brought us together
but also set us apart
showing it all, concealing the soul
rules have changed
we make friends with a click
no need to say a word.
Look up, look me in the eye
shake my hand, have a beer with me
I’m here before you in flesh and blood.
Go out, that’s where life truly happens.”
(translated on the spot by Manja Maksimovič)

Trubarjeva, Ljubljana

And Murat knows what he is saying because a while ago he and Jose did the song Nazaj (“Back”) with a similar sentiment, in which Slovenian legend Benč repeats the words from his old song about how he wishes to return in time but knows it is not to be. And then Murat & Jose add:

So quickly that we can’t even see
in such a noise that we can’t hear a thing
on and on, as fast as we can
hey folks, by the way, do we even know where we go?

There is no doubt about the difference in quality of life back then and now. Never mind the holiday where there was none.

Photo: MM

Featured photo: Statue of greatest Slovenian poet France Prešeren, whose death was turned into the national cultural holiday. All the photos taken in Ljubljana this summer.

How much is it if I cry?

First a song by a Serbian band that I have translated for the occasion, then a true story, which is how I like them the most.
Riblja čorba: Dva dinara, druže / Two dinars, comrade
Translated by Manja Maksimovič

We were coming up with names for our children.
I loved her more and more every single day.
I was certain that I’d finally found the right woman.
We were saving for an apartment together.

I was sitting alone at our table.
Everything worth a damn had gone down the drain.
A woman made an ass out of me again.
I was just supporting cast.

I wished to howl, I ran downstairs.
I wasn’t able to hold it much longer.
A social case in front of the toilet said:
“Two dinars, comrade.”

“Number one, one dinar, number two, two.”
My glance pierced him like a sword.
“Excuse me,” I inquired.
“And how much is it if I cry?”

Should one drive from Ljubljana to Rome, out of one home into another, this means 7 to 8 hours highway time with many pit stops. Not only bestia but also I have to use the toilet on several occasions.

The first one comes soon, because amore needs an espresso to see the day clearly. This means a cappuccino for me. Immediately upon tasting it, my tummy makes a rumble and I cringe in pain. What a godawful broth. I almost have to run.

The toilet of the bar is next to the gas station. There is a bus, with people smoking in front, obviously travelling great distance, south to west.

When I reach the toilet, there is a line and a woman is collecting coins. Obviously the bus women have invaded the premises. They occupy all the sinks too, performing morning ablutions, watering their faces and cleavages, gurgling, making horrible-sounding attempts to clear their lungs. Like at home. Don’t you just love sleeping on the bus.

The scene worsens my pain and to think that I’ll have to pay for the experience makes me make an epic eye-roll.

The coin-collecting woman throws me a glance and mumbles something in the cursing way of a gypsy, possibly convinced that I cannot understand. But I can.

(She, in one of ex-Yugoslav languages:) Rolling eyes, are you?

(Me, repeating after her:) Rolling eyes.

(She, aghast:) You are Macedonian!

(Me, looking her in the eye:) Do I look it?

(She, laughing now in disbelief:) You are Slovenian!!

Since we are in the middle of Slovenia, this shouldn’t come as such a surprise but I know, Slovenia is a transit country. And Slovenians would rather not discuss nationalities with a coin-collector. Instead they would stare dead ahead. Or check their nails.

(Me, deciding to be jovial:) You can tell me, what on earth are you putting in these coffees so that everybody needs to come in here and pay you? What a market niche!

She grins widely now. A booth empties and I run in. Upon exiting I’m even happy a little and ask her how much she thinks it was worth. She says: “Daj šta daš.” Give what you give. I give her 50 cents to make it level with the toilet in Pisa where I was similarly appalled that I had to pay, but there the price was fixed, and greet her goodbye, still grinning. Obviously I made her day.

When I have to pee again, it’s hours later and we are in a service station somewhere in Italy. Off the highway it’s all rather the same until you start to climb the Apenini. I have to walk up and up and up to find a toilet.

As soon as I see there is no line, I decide to dash for the closest booth, when I pass another lady employee. She looks at me in something like horror but I choose to ignore her and proceed, thinking: “Oh no you won’t, goddamnit. You don’t even speak my language. You don’t need these bloody coins, your make-up costs more than my bra.”

Then I stop listening to my internal monologue and while peeing have a listen around me. Something is off.

I buckle up and just before making my exit I realise what is happening.

I only hear male voices.

She did try to warn me.

≈ Manja Maksimovič ≈

Featured photo: Off the roof this morning. Photo: MM

Kissmas for birthday

Today is your birthday and as every year, the whole world will celebrate it.

There are so many moments I could share that would shed light on why I love you. Let me at least attempt to count the ways.

  • How you say upon exiting a grocery store with handfuls of bags: “Did you notice in what bad mood the cashier lady is today? She’s almost crying.”
  • How we pass a lady at the beach parking who managed to bury her car deep into the sand, and I know you will go to help her immediately in a very determined, not to say stubborn way. And you do.
  • How you tell me that you will fix Ubuntu in Slovenian for when my mom visits even though she would not know Ubuntu if it landed on her head.
  • How you took my parents and me to a Tuscan Oktoberfest in a pub, which developed into a PARTY. Photos are from there. Crazy people! Us and them.

    Photo: BM

  • How you ask me “What would you like for dinner?” almost every night.
  • How you find a most challenging recipe and just do it.
  • How you impressed my mom the first time you visited me to spent New Year’s Eve together and I was sick and you went shopping with her. She said: “He knew every food you like and don’t like!”
  • How I write a trilingual shopping list and then you go to the store alone and buy everything right except you bring honey (miele) instead of milk. Talking about improvement.
  • How you agreed to translate with me a book into Italian even though my Italian was non-existent at the time. Even though nothing came out of this deal, I appreciated your intent.
  • How we were googling matching finger tattoos instead of rings if the need arises before living together but now I can’t imagine you suffer through this process without serious damage to the tattooator.

Not us! (God forbid.) Just a design saved long ago.

  • How you love your crazy guy (below) and how we translated his song into English together on a favourite day of this year. Last year you took me to his concert too. Entire families with little children, nobody drunk, all singing in unison, a guy dressed in Van Gogh running around the stage, and Caparezza enlightening the youth of today drawing a great comparison.

Tanti auguri, amore, and let every moment of your life live to its full potential.

Mica Van Gogh by Caparezza

Before you start calling Van Gogh “crazy”,
you must know that he is the roof and you are the ground floor
before saying that he was out of his mind,
you do a drawing with a sheet of paper and crayons

Van Gogh,
not just some guy over there
but one who at your age
was reading books by Emile Zola
was versed in Shakespeare
was versed in Dickens
while you read DVD Recorder manuals

three hundred letters, of fine literature
one hundred and sixty characters and two smilies,
and that’s it.

London, Paris, Anverse,
megastore, hyper, multiplex

far away but he knows all about his brother Teo
living with your brother but you know nothing about him

on foot in the fields, stimulated
closed inside a room with cramps on a treadmill

Beh, already at the first glimpse,
my dear boy,
you ought to agree that…

You are crazy
never mind Van Gogh

Van Gogh
when he was sixteen, he was visiting art collections
at sixteen, collect Yugioh cards

at twenty, in the Louvre salon
and you,
in the SUV salon losing everything but your shirt

oils on canvas, creating paintings
oil on muscles, body-building contests

countrywomen, models, and prostitutes
spend your nights in the bed with your laptop

He is talented and you know that
this is something that you don’t have

bets on himself
on poker online

euphoric at having met Gauguin
euphoric at having snorted cocaine

absinthe and poetry
without poetics

has faith
feel to be the Messiah.

Van Gogh,
a razor and he cuts his ear off
I hear you talk and
I’m about to do the same.

I have the razor in my hand
but I won’t kill you,
I’ll have pity on you because…

You are crazy,
never mind Van Gogh

You vandalize everything
when your team scores
you stand in line
to buy a smartphone

You are crazy
never mind Van Gogh

Ok, Van Gogh was eating paints out of tubes
and other absurd things,
probably less toxic than your cheeseburger

He had hallucinations that alter the sight
you eat mushrooms in Amsterdam
but this doesn’t make you an artist

You live and breathe for cellphones
him for sunflowers
hanging around with you is like being alone

Turning point, change of wind,
like in the game of rubamazzo,

There is news, ragazzo!
You are not sane anymore…

You are crazy
never mind Van Gogh

Translated by us ❤

Thursday Doors, October 29

Three Doors Down is a band that I don’t know at all but every time I see this name somewhere I chuckle, because it sounds like somebody is counting off the original The Doors members. And now when I hear it I’ll be thinking of Thursdays too. Today I have three doors, three songs with own translation and one band down. The Party Breakers Serbian-style.

Serbians usually use Cyrillic alphabet when they write, and even when they don’t, they spell foreign names in the manner of “write as you speak” (piši kao što govoriš). Keith Richards thus becomes Kit Ričards, Washington turns into Vašington, and Kate Winslet is written down as Kejt Vinslet.

In this manner the band I wish to highlight today answers to the name of Partibrejkers (in Cyrillic that would be Партибрејкерс). They come from Belgrade, Serbia. And they have been known to rock’n’roll.

Before the first song I wish to show you a door that made me think Serbian thoughts. This shop is in Ljubljana, Slovenia, where “write as you speak” was never a thing. So I don’t know if this is an official shop or a rip-off or what. Somehow I can’t believe that Apple would make such an error of judgement. 😀 And yet, I want to know.

I want to know / Hoću da znam

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

I want to know
where this road is leading
me and my life

Whose is the beginning
whose is the end
who is the man
who knows the eternal secret

Where there is heart
there the sun shines
Where there is fear
there lives the darkness

To be same, to be special
to be free, to be your own
same, special
free, your own

Mary, mother of God
do you see
what they are doing to your children

Hoću da znam
kuda vodi ovaj put
mene, i život moj

Čiji je početak
čiji je kraj
koji to čovek
večnu tajnu zna

Tamo gde je srce
tamo sija Sunce
tamo gde je strah
tamo živi mrak

Biti isti, biti poseban
biti slobodan
biti samo svoj
isti, poseban
slobodan, biti samo svoj

Marijo, majko Božija
da li vidiš
šta rade sa tvojom decom

Speaking of which, this is the door of a spiritual centre in Rome. And a window.

Hypnotised mass / Hipnotisana gomila

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

We aren’t going anywhere
we aren’t doing anything
we are one huge
hypnotised mass

But I’ve got the key
and I know the lock
I’ll unlock it
and plant stuff in your head

I can entertain you
I can make you crazy
I can put you to sleep
I can wake you up

Do you believe me
or do you think with your own head?

Mi ne idemo nikud
i ne radimo ništa
mi smo jedna velika
hipnotisana gomila

Al’ ja znam ključ
ja poznajem tu bravu
odključaću i staviću
ti svašta u glavu

Ja mogu da te zabavim
ja mogu da te sludim
ja mogu da te uspavam
ja mogu da te budim

Da li veruješ meni
Ili misliš tvojom glavom

This is a building in Roma’s Monteverde district with three doors up. And the song below is from a concert in 1991 when Slovenia said goodbye to Serbia, then still in Yugoslavia which was starting to break at the seams, with heartbreaking results. And in eight years’ time this led to NATO bombing Belgrade, which is something that you would NEVER EVER EVER believe if somebody told you when you were 16.

It is Germans who bomb Belgrade.

What I attempt now / Ono što pokušavam sad

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

I was never young
I’ve been old since forever
I spend angry days alone
alone I’m licking my wounds

Do you want me to be alive
do you want me to be happy
give me faith
protect me from everything

What I attempt to do now
you won’t till the end of your life

Do you want me to be alive
do you want me to be happy
offer me faith
protect me from everything

Nikad nisam bio mlad
bio sam uvek star
ljute dane provodim sam
sam, ližem svoje rane

Želiš li da sam živ
želiš li da sam srećan
daj mi veru
zaštiti me od svega

Ono što pokušavam sad
ti nećes za ceo svoj život

Želiš li da sam živ
želiš li da sam srećan
pruži mi veru
zaštiti me od svega

Photo: MM

For Norm Frampton’s Thursday Doors challenge.

Photo: MM

“You know what children, artists and madmen have in common: they know that everything in this world happens for the first time. There are no repeat performances.” —Vitomil Zupan

Gut, besser, Grüße und cin cin zum Geburtstag!

One Marija

When I was little, I didn’t have records, I had cassettes. One of those that got most play time was Od šanka do šanka (“From Bar to Bar”) by Andrej Šifrer.

He is a Slovenian singer/songwriter even though the songs on this album are in Croatian language (in order to reach other republics of Yugoslavia beyond Slovenia, no doubt). We all knew Croatian, or what was called Serbo-Croatian at the time, so I tried writing down lyrics and singing along with him.

The song below, which I have just translated into English, was written for his wife by the name of Marija. I loved to sing the chorus as Maaaaanja instead, pretending he was singing it for me.

This summer I had a drink with a friend in the centre of my hometown, where I return only twice every year since moving to Tuscany: once in winter, once in summer. During the conversation she lowered her voice and said: “Don’t turn now but look who is coming! He and his wife divorced this year, did you know that?”

by Andrej Šifrer
Translated by Manja Maksimovič

Somewhere close to us
sometimes a voice can be heard
as if the Earth
is calling us to work.

When I plough the field
I’m thinking of sowing
and when I sow
I’m getting ready for harvest.

We had known before
what would happen and what not
but I can see the face
from which the darkness drinks the tears.

Believe the morning after a night
believe the Earth and its might
we are the grain
out of which the world is growing.

Don’t be afraid of the days before us
don’t be afraid of the dumb and the evil
the light is with us
we are better than them.

Marija, one Marija
arranges life out of tiny pebbles from our island.
Marija, one Marija
in the mirror of my parks, of my pride.

Those who know everything
and those who know nothing
believe me
those are the dangerous ones.

Yet as I go through my day
I’m more and more convinced
that they are
one and the same.

Featured photo: Yesterday, from the roof. Photo: MM

WPC: Connectingcut

Here are some examples of how we stay connected. Photos are in couples as it should be. (Also, nothing has to do with Connecticut.)

First it’s the wires and the flowers. Bežigrad, Ljubljana.

More wires and flowers and a pigeon, in Piran.

More and more often a quiet spot is needed to connect. In Piran.

Up on Tinjan, on Italian-Slovenian border, and the view off it.

Piran, the board next to the monument erected on the occasion of Slovenia’s entry into the European Union. Translated, the poem by Slovenian poet Tone Pavček goes like this: The sun travels from the East to the West, making people happy here and there. Let us be the sun! (Translated by MM)

And then it’s again the bike and the leash and home.

But my favourite ways of connecting go something like this. Photos from two of my recent posts (first: Ljubljana, second: Piran).

Photo: MM

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Connected.”

The Haymaker

The Haymaker
by Tone Kuntner
Translated by Manja Maksimovič

You were a haymaker
in a flowery skirt.
It was a lovely day,

it was a lovely day.

For a long time after
we shed a whiff of hay.

Over here. Photo: MM

Grabljica – Tone Kuntner

Bila si grabljica
v rožnatem krilu.
Bil je lep dan,

bil je lep dan.

Potem sva še dolgo
dišala po senu.

Maybe it will all be okay

Today celebrates my mother. You really should get to know her.

People say that we grow to become our parents, boys grow into fathers, daughters grow into moms. Am I lucky in that regard! This is what awaits me:

She loves bestia, to read and to make others happy (that car race must have been really the last thing she wished to see but it was my birthday).

There is much more about her, though. Not only she must be the oldest Slovenian rapper (here in my old, “skater” shirt),

she also writes poems. Here is one from her first collection of poems for children, illustrated by Mina Fina and published in Slovenian:

Kaj delajo fantje v vrtcu
by Meta Maksimovič

Tine mi meče drobtine
iz bližine,
Vito me vleče za kito
kadar jem pito.
Zvone mi krade bonbone
in skriva balone.
Samo me suva v ramo,
ko se igramo,
Rok me spravi v jok
ko mi vzame sok.
Le Dado ima lepo navado,
da nosi mi čokolado.

Illustrated by: Mina Fina

I translated it into English because I would really like for the whole world to enjoy her poems (another one is here, soon the translations will make a book as well). Now it sounds like this:

What boys do in preschool
Translated by Manja Maksimovič

Fred, you throw pieces of bread
On top of my head
Nate, you’re pulling my braid
When the table is laid
Boon, you hide my cartoon
And blow my balloon
Zak, you push me in the back
When we play in the shack
Sly, you make me cry
When you steal my pie
Just Clyde is so very polite
He gives me chocolate, I bite.

And this is what I could add (hippies, like partisans, will NEVER die out, no matter how others count on old age to do them in):

Maybe it will all really be okay, mom. Imagine that! I’m happy that you like what I did to your poem. Wishing you a happy heart (and many more heart-shaped stones that you collect and can be seen on the top photo), a peaceful soul and calm sea. Happy birthday!

Photo: MM & BM (last)

It’s been a while

For my friend. Not that much is the same, just the wine.
Djordje Balašević: Ostaje mi to što se volimo / I’m left knowing that we love each other

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

My childhood friend lives in the country happily 
like in a Russian novel, yes, exactly like that. 
He has a wife and a son and a cellar full of wine 
and couldn’t care less for the rest. 

Recently I see him less and less 
mostly just when he celebrates something. 
He doesn’t ask many questions, he reaches out his hand and says: 
“It’s been a while.” 

And then we remember the days when we were wild and fast as reindeer 
and the closer we are to truth and sadness the more we approach the next litre.  

I ask him if he knows that you’re gone, that you’re gone. 
“Well, yes,” he says, “she had another man, you know that.” 
I ask him if he knows that we love each other, still love each other. 
“Aren’t you a lucky one,” he grumbles, “you can be such a child sometimes.” 

In the Tuscan country. Photo: MM

My childhood friend looks at life austerely 
he sees the sky and the earth, and he’s right about that. 
I am a damn poet standing in the rain 
who is lying and loving.

Even though we went to the same rough school of life 
we are distant sometimes, it’s only human. 
Everybody carries an own little god on the inside 
that he secretly worships. 

And so we remember the times when we were running from the wind like wild stallions
and the closer we are to truth and sadness the more we approach the next glass.

I ask him what to do now that you’re gone, you’re gone. 
“Never mind,” he says, “there are many more like her.” 
I ask him if he knows that we love each other, still love each other.  
“Right,” he grumbles, “pass that bottle, pal.” 

My childhood friend married green 
but lucked out, whereas me, I haven’t, you see. 
I have loved many, some perfectly empty 
some perfectly foreign. 

And more and more I feel that there is no way 
of describing you to him, the only true one. 
That’s why I’m dissolving the whole world in the wine 
there are no limits to what can fit into this glass. 

And I quickly turn the subject to our childhood and stallions with sweaty breath  
and the closer we are to truth and sadness the more we approach the next drop.  

I ask him if he knows that it doesn’t matter that you’re gone. 
“Okay then,” he says, “what are you left with now?” 
I’m left knowing that we love each other, we still love each other. 
“Don’t know if it’s the wine,” he grumbles, “but this is getting ridiculous.” 

Who sings thinks no evil

Since it’s Azra, this must be Trpanj. They go together so well. And yet, only the latitude matches.
“Who is singing over there” by Azra / Azra: Tko to tamo pjeva 

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

where do we go from here
crowned heads stick out from the sand
what are they doing?
farting into dust

kamo dalje
iz pijeska vire krunisane glave
što to rade
prde u prašinu

i have a feeling
that standard has turned the people sour
they eat shit and daydream

čini mi se
da je standard pokvario ljude
jedu govna i sanjare

it will improve
take off the medals and fill up the halls
the trophy street has run out of steam

bit će bolje
skini medalje i napuni sale
ulici trofeja ponestaje snage

abandoned girls
junkies and harlots
count on you

ostavljene djevojke
narkomani i bludnice
uzdaju se u tebe

Not my Balkan.

armoured boats
were taking you to all four sides
you were truly consistent

blindirani brodovi
vozili te na četiri strane
zbilja si bio dosljedan

and so generous
managing other people’s pain
is no small fucking feat

i velikodušan
raspolagati tuđom mukom
nije mala zajebancija

it will improve
take off the medals and fill up the halls
the trophy street has run out of steam

bit će bolje
skini medalje i napuni sale
ulici trofeja ponestaje snage

abandoned girls
junkies and harlots
count on you

ostavljene djevojke
narkomani i bludnice
uzdaju se u tebe

Not my monkeys. Isola del Giglio. Photo: MM

Where are the limits?

It was 20 years ago. We were in K4, our Thursday and Saturday retreat, and a song was often played, by a Slovenian band, they said, even though the song was called Happy Office and the band Siddharta.

I remembered. I just tried to google it to see under what (Slovenian) name this song later emerged when they published their first album and (almost all) songs were in Slovenian. But there are no hits. And yet, I remember.

In time the band has grown into (arguably, like everything) THE greatest Slovenian band. These days they celebrate their 20th anniversary.

This is my favourite song by them, and that’s why I translated the lyrics into English too, no matter how untranslatable they may be. But that’s quite all right, I’m always in favour of doing it your way.

And where the limits are, only you know, guys.

Siddharta by Siddharta

Translated by Manja Maksimovič

Hidden in the sea
submerged in the world of Dalantik
the clan of “little people”
has concluded their beliefs
where let it be seen
let it be seen, the laughter caught
between the utopias of shredded phenomena
and the ideas of quasi grand people.

It sounds nice:
another soul, same material,
every hand, cheek and body
every mind goes skyward
when the unrest is winding
when the rest is unwinding all the marked ones
and only the “dog” on the wall shall remain
keep marking the people for years to come.

Let it be seen
let it be seen, the World trapped
between the illusions of shredded phenomena
and the idea of god, which you should believe in
let it be seen
let it be seen in the hearts of the “little” ones
not on the wall.

Oh, hey, hey, hey, you in black
believe it or not, you will drink your fear.
And hey, hey, hey, you, the green one,
they will knock you down with proud and joy.
And hey, hey, hey, you in white
did you ever understand what you sang for them?
And hey, hey, hey, where is this road leading to
where are the limits?

It’s enough that the little one
has no idea where and when he’ll sleep tonight
and whether he’ll get up in the morning;
so let paranoia choke you
paranoia choke and drown you,
for they were only killing
only killing the invitees.

9-3-15 016 (1280 x 960)

A dog before the wall, behind it: Orvieto, photo: MM.

Siddharta: Siddharta 

Skrit v morju,
potopljen v svet Dalantika
je klan “malih ljudi”
sklenil svoja verovanja,
koder naj se vidi,
naj se vidi smeh ujet
med utopije utrganih pojav
in ideje kvazi velikih ljudi.

Sliši se lepo:
druga duša, isti material,
vsaka roka, lice in telo,
vsaka pamet gre v nebo,
ko se nemir ovija,
ko se mir ubija vsem zaznamovanim
in le “pes” na steni bo ostal,
nekaj let ljudi zaznamoval.

Naj se vidi,
naj se vidi Svet ujet
med iluzije strganih pojav
in idejo bog, v kar naj bi veroval,
naj se vidi,
naj se vidi v srcu “malih”,
ne na steni.

O, hej, hej, hej, ti v črnem,
verjameš ali ne, ti boš strah popil.
In hej, hej, hej, ti zeleni,
s ponosom in srečo te bodo zbil.
In hej, hej, hej, ti v belem,
si sploh kdaj razumel, kar si drugim pel.
In hej, hej, hej, le do kam pelje tale cesta,
kje so meje?
Saj je dovolj že to, da mali
nima pojma, kje in kdaj nocoj bo spal,
in če bo jutri vstal; pa naj te paranoja davi,
paranoja davi in utopi,
zakaj ubijali so,
ubijali so le povabljene.

Nicky – a fish or a butterfly?

Photo: MM

Today is the birthday of my oldest friend, not by age but by durability. The photo is from last year, but the song is from the golden times which should come back right about now! / Danes ima rojstni dan moja najstarejša prijateljica, ne po letih, ampak po stažu. Fotografija je izpred nekaj let, pesem pa je iz zlatih časov. Morjo se vrnt, oi!

Nicky, drži se pa pri kraj hod in izogibaj se preveč bleščečih izložb in avtomobilov, da ne boš kot črni metuljček. VSE NAJJJJJ!!!

Black Butterfly by YU grupa

(Translated by Manja Maksimovič)

A street lamp is throwing light in a circle
while black butterflies are flying straight at it
what they don’t know is that this is the end
the shine of its light is killing them

I also used to fly once, I was a butterfly too
the light lured me and burnt my wings down
black butterfly, fly into the night
wait for the morning, with it comes the light

Crni leptir – YU grupa

Ulična svetiljka baca svetlost u krug
dok crni leptiri lete pravo na nju
ali ne znaju da tu je kraj
da ih ubija njene svetlosti sjaj

Nekad sam leteo, leptir bio i ja
svetlost me mamila, krila mi spržila
crni leptiru, beži u noć
jutro sačekaj, svetlost će doć