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"EMINA" via Branimir Štulić, EKSKLUZIVNO!

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Published on Mar 29, 2011

EMINA (Aleksa ŠŠantić)

Sinoć kad se vraćah iz topla hamama,
prođoh pokraj baššte staroga imama;
kad tamo u baššti, u hladu jasmina,
s ibrikom u ruci stajašše Emina.

Ja joj nazvah selam, al mojega mi dina,
neće ni da čuje prelijepa Emina,
već u srebren ibrik zahitila vode,
pa niz bašštu đule zaљevati ode.

Aššvin, aššva, ja paššša, koњa jašši subašša.
Aššvin, aššva, jebat ga, koњa jašši koњina.

S grana vjetar duhnu, pa niz pleći puste
rasplete joj one pletenice guste.
Zamirisa kosa ko zumbuli plavi;
a meni se krenu bururet u glavi.

Zamal ne posrnu, mojega mi dina,
ali mi ne dođe prelijepa Emina.
Samo me je jednom pogledala mrko,
nit ne haje, alčak, ššto za њome crko.

Aššvin, aššva, ja paššša, koњa jašši subašša.
Aššvin, aššva, jebat ga, koњa jašši koњina.

Po baššči se ššeće i dupetom kreće,
ni hođin mi zapis niššta pomoć neće.
Ja, kakva je pusta, tako mi imana,
stid je ne bi bilo da je kod sultana.

Umro stari pjesnik, umrla Emina,
ostala je pusta baššta od jasmina.
Salomљen je ibrik, uvelo je cvijeće,
pjesma o Emini nikad umrijet neće.

Za englesko govorno podrucje bujrum odje:

EMINA
(Aleksa ŠŠantić)

Last night while returning from a steamy bath
I passed by the garden of an old imam.
And lo! In the garden, in the shade of a jasmine,
there with a pitcher in her hand stood Emina.

I cried out salaam, swear with my beliefs,
but beautiful Emina wouldn’t even hear it.
Instead, scooping water with a silver pitcher,
went around the garden watering roses.

Ashvin, ashva, aye pasha, rides a horse subasha.
Ashvin, ashva, fuck it, rides a horse who has one.

A wind blew from the branches down her lovely shoulders,
unraveling those thick braids od hers.
Her hair gave off a scent of blue hyacinths,
dizziness went in hand with stroke aparatus.

I nearly stumbled, I swear by my faith,
but beautiful Emina didn’t come to rest.
Only what she gave me was a frowning look,
not caring, the wicked one, that death it took.

Ashvin, ashva, aye pasha, rides a horse subasha.
Ashvin, ashva, fuck it, rides a horse who has one.

Yes, what a beauty! By my faith I could swear,
she wouldn’t be ashamed if she were at the sultan’s.
And the way she walks and her battocks move,
not even a priest amulet could save my soul.

Old poet has died, Emina as well,
garden of jasmine deserted became.
Pitcher is broken, flowers withered,
but Emina’s song remains unfaded.

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