Buđenje ranog proleća [English translation]

A song should be something like a march,

The orchestra's tuning and there's no way it will be out of key.

At the quiet whisper of drums, cellos are entering,

The strings and fiddle bows are scratching.

Awakening of early spring and light pain in the chest,

And a song made so it could be sung.

Then the most beautiful female voices enter,

Supported by united basses,

Strikes of the summer lightnings and canononades,

Like Tchaikovsky, 1812.

Awakening of early spring and light pain in the chest,

And a song made so it could be sung.

Then the male voices enter, determined,

All the veterans and forgoten aces,

With hearts of a young falcon and a song instead of military boots,

The land that gave birth to the river smells.

Awakening of early spring and light pain in the chest,

And a song made so one could march to it.