“Svakidašnja Jadikovka” (“Daily Lament”)
by Tin Ujević

Kako je teško biti slab, 
kako je teško biti sam, 
i biti star, a biti mlad!
I biti slab, i nemoćan,
I sam bez igdje ikoga,
i nemiran, i očajan.
I gaziti po cestama,
i biti gažen u blatu,
bez sjaja zvijezde na nebu.
Bez sjaja zvijezde udesa
što sijaše nad kolijevko
sa dugama i varkama.
O Bože, Bože, sjeti se
svih obećanja blistavih
što si ih meni zadao.
O Bože, Bože, sjeti se
i ljubavi, i pobjede,
i lovora i darova.
I znaj da sin tvoj putuje
dolinom svijeta turobnom
po trnju i po kamenju,
od nemila do nedraga,
i noge su mu krvave,
i srce mu je ranjeno.
I kosti su mu umorne,
i duša mu je žalosna,
i on je sam i zapušten.
I nema sestre ni brata,
i nema oca ni majke,
i nema drage ni druga.
I nema nigdje nikoga
do igle drača u srcu
i plamena na rukama.
I sam samcat putuje
pod zatvorenom plaveti,
pred zamračenom pučinom.
I komu da se potuži?
Ta njega nitko ne sluša,
ni braća koja lutaju.
O Bože, žeže tvoja riječ
i tijesno joj je u grlu,
i željna je da zavapi.
Ta besjeda je lomača
i dužan sam je viknuti,
ili ću glavnjom planuti.
Pa nek sam krijes na brdima,
pa nek sam dah u plamenu,
kad nisam krik sa krovova.
O Bože, tek da dovrši
pečalno ovo lutanje
pod svodom koji ne čuje.
Jer meni treba moćna riječ,
jer meni treba odgovor, 
i ljubav, ili sveta smrt.
Gorak je vijenac pelina,
mračan je kalež otrova,
ja vapim žarki ilinštak.
Jer me je mučno biti slab, 
jer mi je mučno biti sam, 
kada bih mogao biti jak, 
kada bih mogao biti drag, 
no mučno je, najmučnije
biti već star, a tako mlad.

How hard it is to be weak, 
how hard it is to be alone, 
and to be old, yet young!
And to be weak, and powerless,
and alone without anyone anywhere,
and restless, and miserable.
And to tread through roads,
and to be trampled in the mud,
without the brightness of stars in the sky.
Without the brightness of the stars of destiny
which shine above the cradle
with rainbows and falsehoods.
Oh God, God, remember
all the glistening promises
which you presented to me.
Oh God, God, remember
the love, and victories,
and laurel and gifts. 
And know that your son travels
the valleys of the dreary world
through thorns and stones,
From pillar to post,
and his legs are bloody,
and his heart is wounded. 
And his bones are tired,
and his spirit is mournful,
and he is alone and neglected.
And he has no sister nor brother, 
and no father nor mother,
and no lover or other. 
And he has no one anywhere
aside from the needles of brambles in his heart
and the flame in his hands.
And alone he travels
under a bounded blue sky,
in front of darkened seas.
And who would he complain to?
No one listens to him,
not even wandering brothers.
Oh God, your words burn
and are tight in the throat,
and they want to be cried out.
That sermon is a pyre
and I must shout it out, 
or my head will catch fire.
So let me be a bonfire on the hills,
so let me be the breath in the flames,
when I am not a scream hurled from the rooftops. 
Oh God, just be finished
this pointless wandering
under a sky that does not listen.
Because I need a powerful word
because I need an answer
and love or holy death.

Bitter is the wreath of wormwood,
sinister is the poisonous goblet,
I cry out from the searing pain.
Because I am sick of being weak, 
because I am sick of being alone, 
when I could be strong, 
when I could be loved, 
but I am sick, sickest of all, 
of being already old, yet so young.