Ево шта бих рекао о мени
Сакупљам половне капи росе, и љубим усне уснуле у мом сну. Понекад пожелим да сам бубица на твојој мајици.
Коментари
Салетове песме
можда вам се нешто и свиди, па ако вам се свиди, ви је пронађите и реците јој
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Скорашњи коментари
djukalfc на Svadba bez Darinke tacjia на Svadba bez Darinke GORDANA JOVIC на Преузимање Сале на СКИНИТЕ СА ИНТЕРНЕТА МОЈУ ПРВУ… GORDANA JOVIC на СКИНИТЕ СА ИНТЕРНЕТА МОЈУ ПРВУ… Mapa
Pesnik i slikar
Баш сам срећна што сам пронашла Салетов свет
a ja bih,Aleksandra, bila sretna kada bih ja, ali i kada bi Sale – kada bismo pronasli …te tri note…koje trazimo..
Једног дана чућемо их иза угла,
из једног малог бифеа,
из тихе песмице
из грла једне женице,
у дну локала
иза угла из једнг малог бифеа.
Pozdravce Sale
))))
Uspavao si se, budi se i pisi, sve sam procitala sesnaest puta
Хехехе, ево једне песмице, специјално за тебе.
Gospodine mladi, vama fali lektor…
Bez namere citanja celog teksta u startu
ne kaye se O MENI, vec
O SEBI.
Kokom,
)))
sumornu noc mi ulepsao Vas komentar…pomislila sam da su davno zamrle takve duse,no na svu srecu nisu,jer kome bih se ja,a da ga pri tome spoznah kroz dve polupismene recenice,tako slatko i podrugljivo smejala na sav glas…I kako bih Vam drugacije docarala sta mislim o Vama,a sta o SEBI
P.S.Javite se,mogla bih besplatno da Vas poducim gramatici i pravopisu!
ne kaze se ni mom snu
VEC
u svom snu
Наравно да ми треба лектор, и већ га имам, па је место попуњено:)
SRECA JE IMATI TE U BLIZINI
Sale, možeš li mi naći Lorkinu pesmu, ne znam tačan naslov ali otprilike “crni im konji, crne potkovice”
hvala unapred.
Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard
Black are the horses.
The horseshoes are black.
On the dark capes glisten
stains of ink and of wax.
Their skulls are leaden,
wich is why they don’t weep.
With their patent-leather souls
they come down the street.
Hunchbacked and nocturnal,
where they go, they command
silences of dark rubber
and fears like fine sand.
They pass where they want,
and they hide in their skulls
a vague astronomy
of shapeless pistols.
Oh, city of gypsies!
Your corners hung with banners.
The moon and the pumpkin
with mazard berries preserved.
Oh, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and forget?
City of musk and sorrow,
with your cinnamon towers.
And at the fall of night,
the night benighted by nightfall,
the gypsies within their smithies
were forging suns and arrows.
A badly wounded stallion
was knocking at all the doors.
Near Jerez de la Frontera,
loud crowed the cocks of crystal!
Naked, the wind turns
the corner of the surprise
in the silver-dark night
the night benighted by nightfall.
The Virgin and St. Joseph
have lost their castanets,
and they search for the gypsies
to see if they have found them.
The Virgin comes dressed
in the robe of a Mayoress
made of chocolate paper
with an almond necklace.
St. Joseph moves his arms
under a silken cloak.
And, with three sultans of Persia,
behind marches Pedro Domecq.
The half-moon was dreaming
the ecstasy of a crane.
Standards and street-lamps
invade the flat roofs.
Dancers without hips
are sobbing in the mirrors.
Water and shadow, shadow and water
by Jerez de la Frontera.
Oh, city of gypsies!
Your corners decked with banners.
Put out your green lights,
the Civil Guard is coming!
Oh, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and forget?
(Leave her far from the sea
with no combs for her hairdress.)
They ride in double file
towards the festive streets,
the rustle of everlastings
invades their cartridge belts.
They ride in ranks of two,
a double nocturne in serge.
The sky, so they fancy,
is a show-case of spurs.
The city, free from fear,
multiplied its doors.
Forty Civil Guards
took them by storm.
The clocks ceased to strike
and the bottles of brandy,
to arouse no suspicion,
wore the mask of November.
Among the weathervanes
rose a flight of long screams.
The sabres cut the breeze
that the hooves trampled on.
Along the streets of shadow
old gypsy women run
with their somnolent horses
and their jars full of coins.
And up the steep streets
the sinister capes fleer,
leaving behind them swift
whirlwinds of shears.
The gypsies are all gathered
by the Bethlehem gate.
St. Joseph, full of wounds,
enshrouds a young maid.
Stubborn and sharp, the guns
clatter the whole night through,
while the Virgin is healing children
with drops of star spume.
But the Guardia Civil
comes scattering fires
by which, young and naked,
the imagination is seared.
Rosa of the Camborios
sits moaning by her door.
Her two breasts, cut off,
are lying on a tray.
And other girls flee,
pursued by their braids,
through the air in which roses
of black powder are bursting.
When all the tile roofs
were but furrows in the soil,
the dawn shrugged her shoulders
in a long stony profile.
Oh, city of gypsies!
The Civil Guard rides away
through a tunnel of silence,
while around you are flames.
Oh, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and forget?
Let them seek you on my brow.
The play of moon and sand.