O sati sumnje, sati bola
Ko stvara, taj vas kleti nece;
Jer radosti su male svijece,
A iz vas raste aureola.

Slabasnu djecu radost radja,
I njezin porod brzo gine,
A pjesme, rasplamsane bolom
Gore ko svjetla za daljine.

 

O hours of doubt, hours of pain
One who creates will never curse you
For your joys are little candles,
And your outcome is the aureole.

Weak children are born by joy,
And its offspring will perish quickly,
But poems fired by pain,
Burn like lights in the distance.

Dobriša Cesarić