When a bird ceases to love(outfit post)/ Kada ptica prestane voljeti (odjevna objava)

I was planning to post more photographs of yesterday's outfit, but I'm having problems with my connection so instead of that here is a neutral outfit I wore some time ago. As you may know, usually my outfits are quite colourful. However, occasionally I prefer the elegance of neutral colours. The white scarf was enough for this outfit not to feel 'overly dark' to me. In addition, this outfit seems to go well enough with this poem by Vesna Parun, that I translated for you. The poem is as you will notice quite serious and perhaps even a bit depressive, but I see it more as a fair warning of what happens when we bury our pains instead of fighting  and surviving them.

Planirala sam objaviti još fotografija jučerašnje odjevne kombinacije, ali imam problema s vezom pa umjesto toga evo jedne neutralne kombinacije koju sam nosila prije nešto vremena. Kao što znate, obično je moj izbor nešto šarenije. Ipak, povremeno mi se sviđa elegancija neutralnih boja. Bijeli šal je bio sasvim dovoljan da ne bih imala osjećaj da je odjevna kombinacija pretamna. Uz to, ovo ruho, čini mi se ide dobro uz ovu pjesmu Vesne Parun koju ću podijeliti i u orginalu i u svom prepjevu. Pjesma je, primjetit ćete, dosta ozbiljna i možda čak i malo depresivna, mada je ja osobno više vidim kao pošteno upozorenje onoga što se događa kada zakopamo svoje boli umjesto da se izborimo sa njima i preživimo ih.

scarf: made by my grandmother, boots: Šimecki, pants: Mango, coat: Tally Weijl

When a Bird Ceases To Love

When a bird ceases to love another bird, it doesn't tell it:
'Fly away now, thousand miles away, so that you wouldn't see
how the indifference is building up in the pupils of my eyes!'
Because the bird is not as listless as a man; for a bird  distance
is merely  hovering of sweet light that inflames the love.
The bird doesn't tell to another bird: 'Now hide a thousand
miles deep under the earth
so that you don't hear how I sing at sunset
a tender lullaby to another sweetheart
that lies with its beak in my lap!'
Because the bird is not as superficial as a man,
it knows that heartbeats
under the earth are heard even stronger
and instead of the calming sounds of a lullaby
the entire forest would be forced to hear
the roaring of the underground caused by the pain.
For that reason when a bird ceases to love another bird,
it stays by its side to die there in solitude.
But a human when it ceases to love another human,
in shame and confusion doesn't know what to do,
ends up running as far away from the other,
and nesting forever his sorrow in one's heart.
These are no such things as small pains. People love small pains.
They are pretty and don't hurt a lot.
If they lose them, they will easily acquire others,
even less expensive and less painful-
because the pain is numbed by experience
and too much experience is offered at fairs for next to nothing.
People love short meetings, short letters,
small events for which the meaning is not to be searched
far away in the stars or in  too dangerous
and unknown regions of our soul.
But those little pains get in our flesh unnoticed
 and exposed to the blade of boredom,
inside of our flesh they become our death.
and because of that number of small carcasses-
that silently rot inside of us-
the vultures howl around our houses our entire lives
and the ants play around our forehead
 cut by many small screams.
So, there will be nothing to go to waste
inside of us when the big pains suddenly shake us,
coming from the great gathering of reason,
untouched by warnings.
We shall carelessly watch the ants that approach
and the huge flocks of vultures
circling us in ever lower circles
in front of our doorsteps
we shall whisper to them:
' You have nothing  to search for here my friends.
there is nothing here but the image
of a dusty skeleton clothed in memories
and that one- rest assured- is not for you.
Meat ,blood and sweet orchard of heart
has been eaten away by little pains,
little by little- they ate everything to the bone
to this little lute in space, can't you see?'
There are no such things as little pains.
There are no little pains under the sun.*

                                                                        poem by Vesna Parun

*my translation

Kada ptica prestane voljeti drugu pticu

Kada ptica prestane voljeti drugu pticu, ona joj ne kaže:
"Odleti sada tisuću milja daleko, da ne bi gledala
 kako se gomila ravnodušnost u mojim zjenicama!"
Jer ptica nije troma kao čovjek; daljina je za nju
lepršavnje slatke svjetlosti koja raspiraju ljubav.
Ne kaže joj: " Sada se sakrij tisuću
stopa duboko ispod zemlje,
da ne čujem kako pjevam u predvečerje
nježnu uspavanki drugoj dragani,
koja leži s kljunom u mome krilu!
Jer ptica nije površna kao čovjek;
ona zna da se otkucaju srca
pod zemljom propinju još snažnije,
i umjesto umirujućih zvukova
uspavanke cijela bi šuma morala slušati
tutnjavu podzemlja koju je izbacila bol.
Zato kad ptica prestane voljeti drugu pticu,
ostane pokraj nje da tu umre, u samoći.
Ali čovjek kad prestane voljeti drugog čovjeka,
od stida i pomutnje ne zna što bi i
bježeći sve to dalje od njega,
ugnijezdi zauvijek u svome srcu njegovu tugu.
Nema malih boli. Ljudi vole male boli.
one su lijepe, a ne bole mnogo.
Izgube li ih, priskrbiti će sebi
još manje skupe i manje bolne-
jer bol iskustvom otupljuje
a premalo iskustva nudi se na vašaru u bescijenje.
Ljudi vole kratke susrete, kratka pisma,
male doživljaje za koje ne treba tražiti
smisao daleko u zvijezdama ni previše opasnim
i nepoznatim predjelima duše.
ali te male doli uvlače se neopazice
u naše meso izvrgnuto oštrici dosade,
 one postaju u njemu naša smrt.
I zbog toga broja malih lešina-
što se nečujno u nama raspadaju-
zavijaju cijelog života oko naših kuća strvinari,
a oko našeg čela izranjenog od mnoštva
malih jauka igraju se mravi.
Tako neće imati što da propadne
u nama kad nas protresu iznenadno velike boli,
proizašle iz velikih stjecišta razloga,
netaknutih opomenom.
Gledati ćemo bezbrižno mrave kako se
približuju i golema jata bjeloglavih
lešinara kako kruže u sve to nižem
luku iznad naših pragova i šaputati im:
" Nemate što tražiti ovdje, prijatelji.
tu nema više ničega osim slike
prašnog kostura ogrnuta sjećanjima,
a taj- budite sigurni- nije za vas.
Meso i krv i slatki voćnjak srca
pojedoše nam male boli
mrvicu po mrvicu- one oglodaše sve do kosti,
do ove luknje u prostoru, zar ne vidite?"
Nema malih boli.
Nema malih boli pod suncem.
                                                                                       Vesna Parun

Vesna Parun, 1922- 2010