Sometimes my thoughts go back to childhood:
In addition to the fire, we warmed up the fireplace
frozen fingers because we were kids.
Some were crying with pain
but they all had a smile at the end.
When we grow up, we feel the same pain
We just don't get close to the fire
and much less has a smile.
Now that we've grown old
We can barely feel the fire.
Pain doesn't mean anything to us.
We miss an honest smile.
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Djetinjstvo
Ponekad me misao vrati u djetinjstvo:
Pored vatre uz kamin grijali smo
smrznute prste jer bili smo djeca.
Neki su plakali od bola
ali svi su na kraju imali osmijeh.
Kad odrastemo osjećamo isti bol
samo ne prilazimo blizu vatre
i mnogo manje ima osmijeha.
Sad kad smo ostarili
vatru jedva da osjećamo.
Bol nam ne znači ništa.
Nedostaje nam iskren osmijeh.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem