I saw Troy, and I saw everything.
Sea, and the shores where lotus flowers ripen
And I returned, pale and alone.
On Ithaca I'd also like to be the one killing,
but since I mustn't,
I'd at least like to sing some new songs.
My house is full of drunkenness, and sin,
and life in this world is sad everywhere,
except at the optimist's!
I don't sing of sold rights,
nor do I flatter the lordly cows.
I sing to the sad ones: I tell them that sadness is freeing.
I'm not a patriotic discussion.
Nor do I care about the Poets' glory.
I won't look over Krleža, or Ćurčin,
or to be the pride of my nation.
My fate is old,
it's only my poems that are a little fresh.
But: either live brings us something new,
and our soul means to us a degree more,
to the sky that, high up there, starry, smells wonderful
or may we all, with our songs, and our Ithaca, and everything
go to hell.
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