Translation of the song lyrics Gloria Aeterna - Jantar

Gloria Aeterna (original)

Suze frustracije, teku niz lice do hladnog poda
Drhtave ruke razbacuju sve bilješke sa stola
U kojima leže slova i formule kao dokaz
Da on, ne može biti niti malo poput Boga
U noćima boli, čuju se urlici sa dvora
Kruna n sjaji k’o prije, ništa nije kao onda
Izdaju ga podočnjaci i miris njegovog znoja
Bolst skida ga sa trona i postavlja ispred groba
Portret iz doba stare slave sa zlatnim okvirom
Više nije mu sličan jer slika isijava život
A on ima još malo, al' ne priznaje nikom
Svoje blijedo lice smrti pokušava sakrit' šminkom
Ne pokazuje milost, jer ona je mrtva u njemu
Svoje kraljevstvo i dalje sad tjera u jad i bijedu
Jer on je 100% siguran, da neko na svijetu
Ima znanje da prevari prirodu i slomi vjeru
Zato glasnici u prvom svjetlu, odrede pravac
Do mudraca koji čuvaju spise sumerskih tajna
Vojskom šalje sve poluge zlata i čak još danas
Otputuju po recepte vječnosti pohlepnog kralja
Nakon 7 tjedana, još kojih nekol’ko dana
Od 4 kraljevska glasnika, 2 došla su natrag
Spuštenih glava prolaze kroz vrata do glavnog oltara
Iza kojeg sjedi bolest sama sa očima pakla
Sluša priče o izdaji, ne može doći do zraka
Počne plakat k’o nikad, fakat, čim istinu sazna
Nisu došli do cilja, a vojska je prestala jahat'
Ubila je dvojicu i drugu poslala je nazad
Do vladara željnog moći i života bez kraja
Da prenesu poruku i objasne kaj se događa
Oni vratit će se brzo kad njega dostigne kazna
Čim on spoji se zemljom, vodoravno poput gmaza
I zaklopi oči, al' ne da trepne ili spava
Već kad duša mu se slomi u komade poput stakla
Čim organi se ugase k’o i večernja lampa
I bace ga u raku duboku k’o Marijanska brazda
Zlato vratit će narodu, jer narodu pripada
Da osvijetle živote u ovom kraljevstvu mraka
Do temelja će srušit dvorac nazvan «Vječna slava»
S tim će napokon prekinut administraciju vraga
«Oprostite visosti», svaka nada je nestala
Ruka stala je drhtat' i predstava je prestala
U odrazu na kaležu pojavljuje se lešina
Osjeti bol u prsima i nađe se na leđima
Polako on postaje hladan da lakše prijeđe na
Prebivalište duša koje isto je k’o pećina
Osuđen na vječnost, al' ne pripada vječnima
Jer svako živ polako njegovo lice briše iz sjećanja
«A u istome gradu ispod starog kamenog mosta živio je on: gladni pjesnik.
Sanjao je o mjestu gdje nema gladi, bolesti i siromaštva.
Teško mu je bilo
razabrati je li riječ o snu ili halucinaciji.
Na kraju, bilo je sasvim svejedno,
jer ono što je vidio nije bilo stvarno.
Svakih nekoliko noći na most su
dolazili kraljevi ljudi koji su ubijali pobunjenike i bacali ih u rijeku.
A da bi on svaki puta, iznova razočaran u svijetu kakvom živi krenuo krvlju
pisati stihove o svojim snovima.»
Bio je, dio jedne sredine ispod nebeske tmine
Gdje je narod gladan, a na dvoru cijede se dinje
Jede se, pije, i kralju jebe se di je puk jer
Siromašan luta dok aristokrati vide put
Nazad na protagonista, nije mu ostalo ništa
Osim mjesta za počinak ispod mosta dok kiša
Pere zločin sa starog kamenog pločnika
Očni kapci postanu teški kad padne noć i tad
Uplovi u nove snove o zemlji nekoj
Gdje iz vedrog neba cure svježi med i mlijeko
Ne bi rek’o da je san jer hrana ima okus
A miris je stvaran k’o i voda iz bunara
U to koraci čuvara, spuste ga iz ovog raja
U pakao siromaštva i bolesti rodnog grada
On otvara oči, razočaran kroči naprijed
Ni ne sluteći da će nastupiti noćni zaplet
Kočija se zaustavlja na samoj sredini mosta
Sakrio se iza stabla, ali ipak vidi dosta
«Što sad ovdje se događa?»
zapita se, «Grozna svađa»
Nagađa, razaznajući dva čuvara iz grada i
Građanina, valjda ima grijeh koji ne želi priznat nikom
Pomisli, pa čuje nazivaju ga izdajnikom
Iznad njih k’o da sijevaju vatrene munje
On zove upomoć, pa mu govore: «Sad te ne čuje
Ni majka, ni uljezi s kojima snuješ planove protiv krune.»
Vežu mu dlanove, pa noge, a on se kune
Da nije ništa skrivio, samo je živio iskreno
Punim plućima, kažu mu: «Budi kuš!»
i tad
Kao od šale mu oštrim noževima raspore grkljan
Gurnu ga s mosta pa kraj rijeke padne dolje mrtav
On je drhtao promatrajući djelo vraga
Blijed od straha promuca «Osvetit ću se jednog dana»
Pa krene piskarat, duša vene, um izgara
Dobri duh iz grada stvara paragrafe ljudskih jada
Zove mrtve perom natopljenim krvlju nove žrtve
Opisujući zločine ove jalove crkve
Pa stavi novi naslov: «Zemlja vječnog blagostanja»
I stane nizati stihove o mjestu kakvo sanja
Dvjesto takvih strana znače nešto čak i nama
Makar će mnogi reći da ih je teško shvatit danas:
«Povijest piše umjetnost, umjetnik piše povijest
Biće tone u vječnoj nadi da bit će bolje
U cik zore vidim prljavštinu naših srca
Pa pokušavam upitati svoje zašto kuca.»
Izdahnuo je mlad ispod mosta jedno veče'
Netko reče da je jadan ost’o nedorečen
Ali Gloria Aeterna, skup krvlju pisanih pjesama
Ostala je živjet, a kralj je nestao bez traga

(translation)

Tears of frustration, flowing down my face to the cold floor
Shaking hands scatter all the notes from the table
In which letters and formulas lie as evidence
Yes, he can't be anything like God
In the nights of pain, screams are heard from the yard
The crown shines like before, nothing is like then
His dark circles and the smell of his sweat betray him
Bolst takes him off the throne and places him in front of the grave
A portrait from the old glory days with a golden frame
He is no longer like him because the image radiates life
And he still has a little, but he doesn't admit it to anyone
He tries to hide his pale face of death with make-up
He shows no mercy, because it is dead in him
He is still driving his kingdom into misery and misery
Because he is 100% sure that someone in the world
He has the knowledge to cheat nature and break faith
That is why the messengers at first light set the direction
To the sages who keep the writings of Sumerian secrets
He sends all the gold bars to the army and even today
They travel to get the greedy king's recipes for eternity
After 7 weeks, a few more days
Of the 4 royal messengers, 2 came back
Heads bowed, they pass through the door to the main altar
Behind which sits the disease alone with the eyes of hell
He listens to stories of betrayal, he can't get air
He starts crying like never before, but as soon as he learns the truth
They did not reach their goal, and the army stopped riding'
She killed two and sent the other back
To a ruler eager for power and life without end
To convey the message and explain what is happening
They will return quickly when the punishment reaches him
As soon as he connects with the ground, horizontally like a reptile
And he closes his eyes, but not to blink or sleep
Already when his soul breaks into pieces like glass
As soon as the organs go out like an evening lamp
And they throw him into a hole as deep as the Mariana Trench
He will return the gold to the people, because it belongs to the people
To illuminate lives in this kingdom of darkness
The castle called "Eternal Glory" will be demolished to its foundations.
With that, he will finally end the devil's administration
«Forgive your highness», all hope is gone
The hand stopped shaking and the show stopped
A corpse appears in the reflection of the chalice
He feels a pain in his chest and finds himself on his back
Slowly he becomes cold to more easily transition to
The abode of souls is like a cave
Condemned to eternity, but does not belong to the eternal
Because everyone alive is slowly erasing his face from memory
«And in the same city, under the old stone bridge, he lived: a hungry poet.
He dreamed of a place where there is no hunger, disease and poverty.
It was difficult for him
to discern whether it is a dream or a hallucination.
In the end, it didn't matter,
because what he saw was not real.
They are on the bridge every few nights
the king's men came and killed the rebels and threw them into the river.
And that every time, disappointed again and again in the world he lives in, he would start with blood
write lyrics about your dreams."
He was, part of an environment under the darkness of the sky
Where the people are hungry, and melons are squeezed in the yard
It is eaten, drunk, and the king is fucked by the people
The pauper wanders while the aristocrats see the way
Back to the protagonist, he has nothing left
Except for a place to rest under the bridge while it rains
It washes the crime off the old stone pavement
Eyelids become heavy when night falls and then
Sail into new dreams about a certain country
Where fresh honey and milk flow from the clear sky
I wouldn't say it's a dream because food has taste
And the smell is real, like water from a well
Into it, the guardian's steps, brought him down from this paradise
Into the hell of poverty and sickness of the hometown
He opens his eyes, steps forward disappointed
Not even suspecting that the plot of the night will occur
The carriage stops in the middle of the bridge
He hid behind a tree, but still sees a lot
«What is happening here now?»
he asked himself, "Terrible quarrel"
He guesses, making out two guards from the town and
A citizen, I guess he has a sin that he does not want to admit to anyone
Think, then hear him called a traitor
Above them, as if they were sowing fiery lightning
He calls for help, so they tell him: "He can't hear you now
Neither your mother, nor the intruders with whom you plan against the crown.»
They tie his hands, then his feet, and he swears
That he didn't hide anything, he just lived honestly
At the top of their lungs, they tell him: "Be good!"
and then
As if as a joke, they slit his throat with sharp knives
They push him off the bridge and by the river he falls down dead
He trembled as he watched the work of the devil
Pale from fear, he stammers "I will take revenge one day"
So the peskarat starts, the soul withers, the mind burns
A good spirit from the city creates paragraphs of human misery
He calls the dead with a pen soaked in the blood of a new victim
Describing the crimes of this barren church
So put a new title: «Land of Eternal Prosperity»
And he stopped writing verses about the place he dreams of
Two hundred such pages mean something even to us
Although many will say that it is difficult to understand them today:
"History writes art, the artist writes history
It will sink in the eternal hope that it will get better
At the crack of dawn I see the filth of our hearts
So I'm trying to ask mine why it's knocking."
He died young under the bridge one evening'
Someone said that he was a poor man
But Gloria Aeterna, a collection of songs written in blood
She survived, and the king disappeared without a trace