W. H. Auden: Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone (Funeral Blues)/ Zaustavite satove, ugasite telefone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good. 

Zaustavite satove, ugasite telefone,
dajte kost psu da lavež mu utone,
utišajte klavire i uz bubanj prigušeni
iznesite lijes, neka dođu ožalošćeni.


Neka zrakoplov kruži nad nama drhtav
šarajuć po nebu: On je mrtav.
Stavite krep-mašne na golubinje bijele glavice, 
nek policajac nosi crne pamučne rukavice.


Bio je moj istok, moj zapad, moj sjever, moj jug,
moj radni tjedan, nedjeljni odmor dug,
moj govor, moja pjesma, moja jutra, moje noći;
mislio sam da će ljubav trajati zauvijek: no neće moći.


Zvijezde nisu sad željene: sve ih zatomite,
spakirajte mjesec i sunce razlomite;
raskrčite šume i izlijte oceane;
jer nestade smisao za preostale dane.