Mile - Tetovirana Jesen dalszöveg fordítás angol nyelvre

Tattooed autumn

1.
 
You don't know how magical it is
to know that somewhere you exist
equally dear and fragile
and on a mad sea
in this tattooed autumn
that you're less and less afraid of
in a world where butterflies
don't even get to see the dawn.
Hidden in your veins
I'm a drop that doesn't flow,
no matter how far we'd be,
no matter how strange we'd look.
Fortunately clowns don't lose
at the end of every story
even though they come out of them
at least for a millimeter crazier.
But you, you're a star
you fell asleep on my palm
and I protect you and won't let go
and don't be afraid.
But if you're already a dagger
and you make some kind of a wound
then I'll also be happy
that you still exist somewhere.
 
2.
 
That autumn in my sweetened blood
fell asleep a gypsy child with blue-green eyes
and two wounded roes from some distant fable.
Remember... I was coachman
in love with my carriage
and with the light of our star that's slowly turning off.
Sunset... clowns are coming out of me through a street that doesn't exist
and a thousand fireflies bring candles
to our unborn son.
Sorry.
There's a wane in the sky and my shadow's afraid
of the troubadour that breaks the mandolin.
Now... I don't have anything except for rhymes
but I would also like to give them back
to some far away star that I've came from vulnerable.
I won't say thank you, but I won't pay you either
cause you're the biggest culprit why I'm gentle and vulnerable.
 
3.
 
That autumn I was left with a smile,
but I've lost it also soon after that.
 
4.
 
But when I leave the stars
I wan't you to be beside me
cause they could also
go to hell in no time.
deep under the water.
a blurry mirror.
At least because of the most beautiful secrets
that we were on the trail
stay for a moment.
stay
only
for
a bit.
Cause when you leave the rhyme
into a terribly scary night
I will, with a manner of a clown
put on a hat made of straws,
a torn coat
and a dull bloody bow tie
and with my weary hands
a huge moon on my shoulder.
 
5.
 
Rain and a sky blurry by crying.
A dream is the last option
to save
what has to be gone.
Don't wake me up
In the eyes of a drunken musician
there's too much water this morning
restlessness, and one distant autumn.
Not even nightingales are whistling the song
that all the birds know.
Let go.
at dawn between the spruces
scared stars shall be found
and lightened candles.
evening, and one small piece of pain.
Words will always say
less
that the eyes speak.
Don't turn around.
The glasses are at the end of the table
but there's no one else anymore
to fill them.
 
6.
 
A SECRET IS ONLY A SECRET IF THE DAWN ACCEPTS IT
Maybe the stars tonight intentionally look like beehives
while the light slides down the face and starry drops sting.
You know that there are good and bad stories,
but you don't know when they come, even less when they leave.
WAVES SOMETIMES WITHDRAW EVEN WITHOUT THE TIDE
Imagine a river that a moon separates in half
and above it a white seagull that forgot how to fly.
A painter spilled an ounce of pain on his favorite canvas
in the form of drops of blood, and later on, who knows when he'll be allowed.
A SMELL OF DEPARTURE CARRIES INSIDE MORE SALT THAT A SMELL OF THE SEA DOES
Don't wake me up, there's a little bit of sorrow in the dreams.
While laughing, we play an equally comical roll,
and those who retreat at dawn under the rainbow
maybe in the next autumn they'll go to school with angels.
AND WHEN THE SHIPS SINK THEY STILL DREAM ABOUT THE HARBOR FOR A LONG TIME
Now take the tattooed autumn and spin it like a boomerang.
I love you like the bee loves quince in bloom.
We have forever stolen all the fairy tales from death,
not knowing that our souls are in mat.
Cause,
A secret is only a secret if the dawn accepts it,
waves sometimes withdraw even without the tide,
a smell of departure carries inside more salt that a smell of sea does,
and when the ships sink they still dream about the harbor for a long time.
 
7.
 
I no longer have anything to regret or anyone to forgive,
except that little patch of light that sometimes touches me and awakens me
even if I believed and I didn't believe
even if I dreamed and I didn't dream
I come back the same and I bleed the same
and the same trail leads me in vain as the painter
who would repeat his best painting
on a piece of white gold
and the life goes on.
You don't even know
that for days I've been dreaming the same butterfly,
just the lamps aren't the same or at least I wake up hoping they're not.
He doesn't have faces and doesn't have anything to be recognized by
except a little scar on the left wing,
and that's enough for me.
I know,
it should've been spring,
but it was an autumn on a raft of medusae
and there was no glow in the grass.
No, don't be afraid.
My rhymes, besides never leaving me alone
sometimes know to be so wonderfully silent.
Everything is tattooed and lost.
And this autumn is also tattooed and lost
although I can still convince myself that I have
dream it all.
And you?
What will you do?
 
8.
 
Does she sometimes remember while watching through other people's windows
down the empty and rainy streets, does it hurt her at least a little bit.
It's just enough for me if her curl trembles
even if she never says that she still loves me.
She doesn't know how much it hurts what's not given back
like nights kept in the eyes that burn double.
Not everything has it's price, but everything has to be payed
with one dreamy scream of the moon that falls into the sea.
I have locked the most beautiful song in her hair
and I hid all my smiles in the curtain of rain,
and she knew very well what that autumn brings
but she didn't want to admit and we didn't exist anymore.
Who knows... maybe tonight some pictures still matter to her,
maybe you can really love only once in a lifetime.
And I'm just a clown whom they forced to cry
with a desire that he plays himself for a miserable sum.
Does she sometimes remember while watching through other people's windows
down the empty and rainy streets, does it hurt her at least a little bit.
It's just enough for me if her curl trembles
even if she never says that she still loves me.
 
9.
 
A million lighthouses in the night and a sky made out of roasted clay
and your hands and lips, juicier than a ripe pomegranate,
in the eyes a sleeping rain and a cloud of hot silence
and one canvas for a painting one slightly clumsy painter.
In the water the moon bled slaughtered in half,
over your half-goodbye a black night has risen.
I remember you were a star bigger than the Big Dipper,
remember, I was a firefly smaller smaller that a poppies grain.
And then I'm at the shore with eyes that don't hold the tide,
heavy as a bura, light as a jugo.
Who knows who's losing tonight: the fire that burns in a smoke
or the smoke from that fire, or maybe both.
Oh, yes, once upon a time, I almost don't remember anymore
on the other side of the light tattooed dreamy until dawn
one clown has dreamed of an island of rain through teary eyes
like a dead dolphin pictures a sleeping sea.
Above the ashes most favorite pictures have found the souls of painters
waves that at dawn silence everything that lightly burns.
Once when you smell the pomegranate through the smell of sea
believe that somewhere a slaughtered moon bleeds after me.
 


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