Mr. Mayor, ladies authorities and neighbors of the scarf, colleagues, friends:
Who would appear, when I came here 50 years ago to start working in this neighborhood so lost and abandoned, which over time would be to record the appreciation for that work.
The truth is that this beautiful and nice gesture named a street the name of a Master, enhances and gives nobility to promote it publicly acknowledging the work of educating not only what has been done, much or little, good or bad but by the hopes, efforts, dedication, the substitution lack of resources that have been put and the implications for the future of a people all that is.
My job has always been oriented with the slogan: "prepare for life", the boys and girls in the first parochial school for 34 years in the Colegio Público "Virgen del Rocío" at the end for the get to tomorrow, which is the "today" now, these children might become a real men and women who fight and work for the good of their neighbors, their colleagues, their community., the impoverished, of those who suffer, living the Gospel values \u200b\u200bof solidarity, responsibility, of equality and service in a good environment of peace, justice and love.
For this task, so humane and Christian as I was lucky enough to have people with lights, with energy, with great courage and initiative, not only accompanied me but gave me strength and enthusiasm to the difficulties: I remind D. Miguel Mejias, early pastor of the scarf (and who brought me here.) A Lolita, and Quini Loriente, the sisters who were the foundation and engine of the parochial schools, Pili, Laura, Miguel de Sola, Eugenio, and many others ... all of them invaluable partners, collaborators and participants in the huge task of promoting the neighborhood to a large group of parents of students who were my hands and my feet to get where my stupidity or my disability prevented me from there: to the bottom of these "little person" who was educated. Of course I told my family: With the patient and resigned Loli, my wife, who in so many projects still feel supported and encouraged me and my children whom I admire and treasure.
All these people that I now remember I represent and dedicate this tribute.
So, thanks for the recognition of the work done always in the now defunct group Parochial School, and Colegio "Virgen del Rocío and now you wanted to customize for me. Thank you for this simple act, as it was our school and how we want our life, without fanfare, but the shooting deep within each one so that we can continue helping them grow as people. Ojala! is this a reason for improvement, encouragement and incentive for future young people who have concerns to improve and change our world. Thank you very much to all of you for everything.
Tomorrow Friday will put a scarf on the street in my father's name.
guess in this one can never be objective, that the pride worthy of any child not be analyzed to see the subject of any otherwise than with admiration and excitement that is presupposed to any good son.
I also suppose that the son is one of the things that one is necessarily with the rest in life. One can be a teacher or lawyer, and may be traveling or cooperating. It may even be political, worse over all and on the whole, is a son. And sometimes, no choice but to speak as a child.
My father, Rafael, was for thirty-four years (34) director Parish School of the scarf. arrived there with just twenty, in his first assignment as national master. He continued here until the day of his retirement. Y that engage more than anything, is that the parish school of the scarf has always been a magical place.
was a school uniform, that is, children lived in each classroom for all educational levels. There were only three classes: toddlers, boys and girls. For over thirty years was well. With classes of more than fifty children between the second and fifth basic. But school was not just school.
When my father arrived in the neighborhood scarf was just an illegal settlement. Self-arranged housing in any way. There were no sidewalks or asphalt, or sewage. The streets were dirt, but mostly mud. The scarf is in the river Guadalquivir and is almost permanently flooded land. At that time the only person who began to fight for the neighborhood was the parish priest, Miguel Mejia (morning also inaugurate the new ambulance in the neighborhood, which we have named Don Miguel). The pastor decided to set up a school and there was my father. And together, the teacher and the priest snuggles to push through the neighborhood. Achieved first of all to be built "the wall", an earth embankment that prevented the constant flooding. After supported and promoted the association of neighborhood residents. The school was the only equipment and the hub of the lively neighborhood seventies. He even formed a union it is still illegal. The first year the neighborhood association hosted a parade of kings, my father was the black king.
Over time another school was built, and even got some local social, but there continued to Rafael, the new pastor after Don Miguel's death, give you hit. Lots of children, mostly very low class, were able to study thanks to the school. A school where values \u200b\u200bwere passed workgroup and made weekly assemblies. Now, my father, retired super-duper Caritas runs the local parish in his old school. Still spends unloading food trucks Monday and Tuesday by spreading.
One does not write only as a child. I was lucky to go a few years the parish school. My earliest childhood memories, when I should not have more than four years, are walking in my wellies in the mud of the scarf, with my suitcase in hand plastic. In the nursery class and learned to read until I had my first child medionovia. Memory network that filled the school boards, each course had its own, and the explanations we had to take turns on benches placed around the teacher's desk. The success rate of school after leaving school was quite high. By mid-morning, at recess, came a milk truck (bottles stuffed in metal cages) to be distributed to all children.
not really just the story of my father, but many more people. Teachers, priests, neighbors. Mostly overlooked, were all pulling together neighborhood marginalization. But my father and I spent dedicated to the scarf every day of his life, at all times. Safe bet that throughout his life has spent many more hours in the school at home. And tomorrow will put their name to a street in the scarf.
been all day listening to the same. I suspect that the song is some kind of evil hidden message, some American experiment designed to create addiction. This is Miguel Poveda singing with Diego Carrasco. Or vice versa. The video is more impressive but the recording (below) sounds much better.:
Two of my favorite books are translations. I mean sometimes you doubt whether you like the translation or just the book. Or vice versa. What excites me are the stories, games, intentions. Feelings. And those were in the original. Translation are the only words that serve vehicle and little else. In some ways the relationship between act and translation is similar to that between feelings and writing.
Translate manuals and books of medicine is a complicated task but mechanical (in fact it can be funny, we all know). Instead translating literature is itself an art: to create a world equal to the world that I think someone else to condense feelings and stories. In any case sometimes the translation is less important than people think. Unless major errors or omissions in the end one captures the essence. It is true that one translated poetry often loses the original rate. Of young during the day on a train that took me by Poland was Leningrad gave me translate some poems of Baudelaire maintaining its rhythm, rhyme and style, was like a puzzle. From memory I remember that just a couple of verses, which always excited me:
comes the time when vibrating on its stem Each flower evaporates as a
inciensiario Finally, the two books that speak are, I know all my friends, Ada or Ardor and Rubayyat .
Translations of Rubayyat given for an entire novel. In truth the work of Omar Kayye hardly be known not for Edward Fitzgerald. This man was an important nineteenth-century Irish poet. Since to study classical Persian poetry, was impressed with this work and made the first known translation, published in 1857. Directly from Persian into English. Not achieved very well know what Fitzgerald had knowledge of Persian (English historiography in the nineteenth century the British one would say, as Richard Burton, learned the Oriental languages \u200b\u200bat the moment of stepping on those lands). It seems that no stops too and must have a black (a Persian, really) in between. Perhaps because of that, some argue that "your work more than an ordinary translation, was marked by a strong inspiration that led to an interpretation of the poetry of Khayyam; coming to be regarded as a translation by some critics after an English poem with Persian allusions. "Indeed what this guy did was to rebuild the Persian verses someone literally translated quatrains much longer than the original, self-paced English . In Khayya (Jayam have to write in English, as they say instead of Khomeini Khomeini, but at this point looks weird) was the air, the mystique of women, the moon and living with joy. This translation go unnoticed but its reissue in 1868 became a worldwide classic Anglo-Saxon.
Shortly after the expert in oriental languages \u200b\u200band secretary-interpreter of the French consulate in the Near East, JB Nicolas (often falsely attributed the title of consul, which sounds more romantic and best evokes the spirit of the route Oaxana) decided to make a new translation. This time the French, without rhyme or rhythm and back to black in between. In this translation attempts to explain, rather than reproduce the sensations of the original quartet. Text is often allegorical and symbolic moves away from the aesthetics of Khayyam. Above all, French-loosely, "added the hundreds of original quartet (actually the reference includes 250 manuscripts, but Hence more than half are not yours) three hundred apocryphal circulating in Persia. this translation is accused (his fault, and made to explain things) to forget the poet's libertine side (bad thing for a Frenchman) and search for mystical esoteric meanings to their simple graphics.
Since then there have been supporters of the Irish and French. That is like being pro-free translation that tries to mimic the feel of the original, the translation or explanation. two extreme ends. Among those supporting the creative version stands out in English, of course, Jorge Luis Borges. Borges, enthusiastic about the work of Irish, even said Omar's soul took up residence Fitzgerald's soul. There
start the English translations ... and confusion. There are at least thirty different translations . Often cited as the first translation of Borges ... but it is not the illustrious Jorge Luis, but his father Jorge Guillermo , who first happened to the child a taste for Irish poetry and translations. The fact is that Argentine versions in Castilian Irish verses. The distance from the original poet was growing.
However some argue that this was the first translation. In the preface to a Latin American version erudite references to a meeting Fist of them:
"The Borges was, at least the third. The first translation appeared in 1907, unsigned, published in Madrid by Renaissance Magazine. The second, by Carlos Sáenz Peña Muzio foreword by Alvaro Melian Lafinur (reproduced in Us XIII.59, March 1914, pp. 225-232), came out 1914 in Buenos Aires (MF2 298). In 1922, appears in the magazine Prism, Rafael Lozano (Paris / Barcelona) a notice of the Editorial Cervantes, Barcelona, \u200b\u200bwhich promotes a series of "The best poetry (lyrics) of the best poets," including "Omar Kayyam." A "translation directly from the Persian "was published by Ventura García Calderón editorial The Convivio, San Jose, Costa Rica, in 1925 (We are 49, 191, 04/25, 519). Next year is the Rubaiyat (a cordes Quatuor), "seven fantasies for string quartet," Adolfo Salazar (Max score Eschig printed in Paris, 1926, cover Salvador Dali). There were also several later versions, including the posthumous Joaquín V. González (1927). "
I did not know there were so many, even though almost all are translations of the verses Castilian and English, without putting your eye to the original Persian. In my time I know of only four (and is looking of Clara Janes in Trotta, but I do not buy it). There is one that was the first I read, which is a collection of such RBA superbarata selling kiosks in the pages of bad paper that turns yellow in two days. The best thing about this translation is that it is the same as that found shrimp (or Kiko Veneno, or friends) and was the one used, with minimal changes to the Legend of Time. . In another collection cheap, cloned from the above, I found the version of Ramón Hervás, clumsy, unmusical and boring. Later old at a flea market I bought a decent edition version Joaquín V. Gonzalez, Irish directly into Castilian. Hyperion has recently published the latest "definitive translation" made by Zara Behnam and Jesus Munarriz and text contained in Persian. Because it will be very accurate, but excited little or nothing (which is sometimes loyalty).
face of it, I doubt that Ada or Ardor can be a definitive translation, and not make himself Vladimir Nabokov, translated into English as the Eugene Onegin, Pushkin, which is perhaps the best translation ever made book. Of course, that it helps enough to be one of the best writers ever in both the original language and in translation. So anybody.
In any case one can only pity the poor translator Ada. Or envy him having to get to live in this complex world. Nabokov took ten years to build the novel, from what began as two different books, and published a week after his seventieth birthday. The French translation took just five years, of which the last six months were devoted to Nabokov and his wife, Vera (who always gave her all the books), heavily revised version. This makes it easier, but is famous discussion between discussion between Nabokov and his French translator, that lack of comprehensive scientific accuracy of Vladimir, he wrote "walnut" instead of "hickory" when referring to a tree.
Finally, the difficulty of Ada is its beauty. It is a complex story, imitating the great Russian sagas, and delicious. It is especially sweet the entire first half, adolescents with poachers and spontaneous love flowing in this lost world that is Ardis. But beyond the story and characters the book is primarily a parody of many parodies. There is a website dedicated to bind to all those works alluded recognized literary or parodied in Ada and the truth is that it collects more than fifty short stays. And among these parodies, Ada itself devotes part of his life to translating the fictional John Shade. Here the novel was translated by the Catalan to Castilian, and what the audacious Jordi Arbonés account gives an idea of \u200b\u200bthe ordeal he suffered. The famous Catalan translator Ada says that for him was pure torture, as he promised never to ever translate Nabokov. The English translation appeared in 1976 signed by David Molinet, a pseudonym used in reality Juan Carlos García-Blur known Catalan philosopher and intellectual who was a man seriously and methodical, he remembered, for this very reason the more intimate Nabokov.
The complexity of the translation of Ada be understood if one takes into account that in the first edition was accompanied by a volume of critical notes on the novel developed by ... Nabokov himself (under an obvious pseudonym.) William Boyd, who has dedicated his life to Nabokov and has published two volumes of his definitive biography (one of them I had to do a review for a literary magazine for years) is such a fan of Ada that is still trying to understand the work in detail and maintains a web page that is entirely and meticulously annotated. Recently, Erik Orsenna has published a book (two summers), whose main argument is the story of a boy who tries to translate into French Ada and need to have it delivered an entire people in body and soul to the task of searching data definition and words.
Anyway, as an attempt to be informed about the translations and original books to the final again be what they were when they were written. It decostruyen to pass the role and re-build when you end up being like a feeling that one day he got into a kind Plover and that this had to try to spread through the letters.
One of the famous painted in May 1968 said "speaking of love is to destroy love ". What happens is that to do graffiti type had no choice but to write the word love, so I fell into his own trap. It is what it is.
The logic of the language is Not The Same logic of facts. By talking or writing you create your own new reality show ever That Are not correspondent with the reality of facts. For example, When somebody says "I love you", I is Creating a new imaginary world from the Different world made by the facts and Acts of the lovers. Love, for example, is an extended Conjunct of feelings and Behaviours Often very unpredictable, and of course the real love is always much more from What Can Be included in the word 'love'. Words are just for simplification to the word, and they do simplify by creating a new world based in the logic: the thinking and talking are different from the acting.
So, when you believe the logic of the talked reason you may believe that you are thinking and deciding about the reality, but probably you aren’t.
In strict terms of language's logic some ideas may sound reasonable. For example you may have a lover in another city, even in an other country, and you may easily think that sentence: "If we are in love but we can’t drink wine together or make love because we are living in separate countries, we will be unhappy as couple". And it may sound logical
But probably it sounds like that because you aren’t considering the complexity of the humans beings when hey take fast decisions about facts. By acting people develop realities based in feelings and often far away of the world of the talked logic.
By talking you can use categories as "you shouldn’t" or "it impossible" or "it will be", but in the world of facts -where fast decisions of different people is interacting and creating new feelings outside of that logic and that you can’t prevent- those categories aren’t useful in terms of personal welfare.
The talked logic can be useful, of course, for trying to understand the world as something logical and predictable, but is stupid to use it as the main source for making decisions in personal life.
It is possible to open the mind and to think in a more open way, considering the talk logic Not Only But Also the possible Modifications of the world of facts WHERE nothing is really predictable.
Predictable Things only get people when to Adopt the talk logic as the guide for FACT Their Behaviour .. Many people do and it shows Sometimes the world as a world logic in Terms of talking, But it isn't.
hate all the bureaucratic world except those required to obtain a visa. Sometimes to enjoy the drawbacks, paperwork and obstacles imposed on me through those windows. Masochism must be some traveler heir of my experiences with the Polish and Soviet bureaucracy of communist times. Something. The fact is that I enjoy. Request the visa is often the first part of the trip and the visit to an embassy often puts you at home.
The Russian embassy has inherited from the communist country's powerful bureaucracy. The officers are strict and serious suuuperburocráticos. Reject any request by a multitude of small details set out in the regulations issued for this purpose: not just any company to make insurance mandatory but a few credit card and you can only carry certain companies. Yes, know how to create orderly queue and treated equally to everyone, always from behind glass. Embassy of Mongolia, but no ghost honorary consulate in Barcelona and Consul is the owner of a travel adventure.
The Embassy of Syria Syria is full of unemployed roaming the waiting room. The location is central, something decadent scene straight out of any book of Naguib Mafhuz. A tiny room. The walls lined with stacks of records to the ceiling, most tucked into brown envelopes. A fairly crumpled poster of President Bashar Assad hung between the sets. Two table also full of papers. On one table, hunched over an official. Mayor. Graying hair and mustache. Prominent belly. Write a pen on a register and next have a cup of coffee. In the other an officer, also in his fifties, with brush-cut hair is yelling at a couple:
"If you bring me a marriage certificate stamped by the Superior Court of Justice, you will be validated in Syria. "But the government delegation told me that it is impossible ..." the girl timidly spoke - see! If you know everything, why ask me? Why have you come? If you can not do, ea, they do not come, come on out! - The street yelled out pointing -sorry ... "The husband takes the word submissive and gradually redirects the conversation.
Not a single person passing out the small office without having received some criticism vilification of bureaucrats angry at the stupidity of every citizen. Soon also reach the office a couple of guys Syrians than rely on the wall and stay there, talking with officials. It is not known whether they work at the embassy, \u200b\u200bmessenger or just go there in the morning laughing at the people coming in and chatting with two old. The treatment of the public is rude, but what most surprises are lots of people wandering around the window with nothing particular to do. Later, in Syria tell you that 30% of the population working or collaborating with the intelligence services, and understand. Credible.
I went to get me a visa for Cameroon and had At least two professional diplomats I have ever seen. An old man wearing a colorful tie and a suit and a very old young man in jeans, shirt and gold chain. The old man did not hear anything, looked at the pictures of the passports and asked the young nonsense about life in Spain. The young man pretended to be efficient, but other than that charged to sort the tickets, did not seem very talkative. The old man asked me if I went with the dancers. As I understand, the other said no, they went to a conference. Then, in a delightful conversation the old man kept insisting absurd "and the dancers? Of their sentences at me loose (in a sort of French incomprehensible typically African) was meant only guitar, dancing, flamenco. Then I knew I was taken by the companion of a flamenco group that had applied for visas before me.
This morning I went to apply for a visa at the consulate of Kazakhstan. Is in a suburb of Madrid does not seem to Madrid. Landscaped streets and villas. Most design, and all immense. In one of them is the embassy, \u200b\u200bconsulate, including ambassador's residence. Everything is new, austere but newly built. Colors. The official, ethnically Kazakh, is right and speaks fluent English. Just do not cut into spending three quarters of their time on the phone of small private businesses to the window while waiting for a tail somewhat less stringent than the Russians. In the neighborhood I passed no one to speak English and those long streets, almost no pedestrians and large cars evoked some districts of Eastern embassies. There do not accept cash, as in some African consulates, but they make you go to a specific branch several miles away landscaped streets. Kazakhstan looks like a prosperous and orderly.
Before going to Kazakhstan, from a simple email, I made up a story in French:
Imagine that you dwell in Lyon, France. Exactement in center city \u200b\u200bat number 32 rue Dr. Rebatel. Your name, for example, Marie Clotilde Gabellieri 21 years and you (your birthday is June 29). You just finished Political Science at the University Jean Moulin (very experienced member of the resistance against the Germans) in Lyon. You're pretty and you femenina veus become an independent woman. You do not even fix a boyfriend. You do not speak very good English but you are strongly in love with the culture and religion of India and Nepal. You read books about religion, you listen to music, and you take care of the political events of the bottom. Sometimes you love about yourself as Shilpamary. India half a nick. Last summer you stayed in a shipyard in India by "the humanitarian" (in MARWARI & MEDICAL RELIEF SOCIETY), and after you are traveling alone by India.
If you live in Lyon you know well the history of silk in Lyon. It is the silk flower has the economy of the nineteenth century Lyon. So the liaison between India and Lyon is ... The Silk Road.
This is not a good reason for doing one job to Kazahstan and more of what you want to make india or nepal? Your Email
would, therefore, of course, mgabellieri@hotmail.fr, yet for most private things you use another worry: honey_moon@hotmail.fr
I ride the Balkan melancholy obituaries, it's almost like a trip. Last week, Saban Bajramovic died. For once to The Country has spoken of it. Tremendous development in a country where Roma are often invisible (perhaps because Ortega y Gasset and polanquito not see below). The fact is that published an obituary essentially taken wikipedia, where the article on his life is, in turn, copied, pasted your own website, but at least posted something. There are characters who are, in themselves, rather than a legend. Exceeds their usual life as it is integrated, become a benchmark, a prototype of a person. So, if you are the prototype of a fancy way of being at the end are a standard type as a representative of that particular extravagance. More or less. So was Šaban Bajramović. A guy who was all over and wild gypsy. Gitano with a way to understand what it means to be Roma closely linked to other times, and the Balkans. His biography is pure indulgence ... but it is also quite full of legends. Born in a shack, in the era of pogroms. Very young, during the military deserted the JNA, the Yugoslav national army of Titus and that fact will affect him forever. He said he did it for a girlfriend who was to see, but who knows. It also had the sentence he would impose it doubled to five years by pimps with the Court and say they would not be with him. Sounds like a typical exaggeration Gypsy hear, but it sounds good. The fact is that the best time of his life were those years on the island Goli. Something like what happens now to my friends exrefugiados of Gasinci, recalling the time refugees as a happy time and idealized which were full of ideas and friends and parties and, above all, life. In prison, set up a band and took pleasure in singing and reading books. Came out did a great singer and eventually became the most famous musician of the old Yugoslavia and is still known worldwide as the king of gypsy music. When asked about the things he liked in life, said not sing but, in this order, drink, women and gambling. With its first commercial success bought a white Mercedes (apparently he lost it later in a bet) and hired two bodyguards. I mean, living as I want to live, as the beloved of the movies cheeky gypsy. And you'd think more settled mind. Well, at least he shaved his mustache bastard he loved and put a pair of sunglasses to the point to remember in your look to the legends of jazz to which he played in his first orchestra on the prison island of Goli. Now that you claim has died as a symbol of the former Yugoslavia and even as Serbian singer, but he really was just a gypsy, and as such is always acknowledged himself. In a country and in an area where Gypsies have always been (uy! seems Spain, hear!) Advertised as a national folk expression but marginalized and discriminated against in everyday life. The Gypsies of the Balkans have much to do with those who live in a vacuum, oddly enough (well, actually ... seems to lie?). Just look at some video clips of Saban Kusturica illustrated with scenes from pa think a quest in The Empty mismito. The type composed over 650 songs but only published 22 albums. A prolific kind, happy and bon vivant. One of the first songs of his that I heard was not really too good. It was Kasandra, a simple, cheerful song, but something pop:
) But then I discovered the songs of truth, in particular the most typical Gypsy songs, both heard and danced in Yugoslavia as a whole, and there I began to get hooked to their music:
Some songs from "Time of the Gypsies (Emir Kusturica's film, absolutely brilliant, so much has marked us all) were clearly Saban. Ederlezi Avela including ... not to be confused with the famous Ederlezi, period. The famous Ederlezi is an old gypsy tune was adapted and transformed by Goran Bregovic and around 1988 when he was the legendary guitar group Bjelo Dugme (the most famous rock ever in Yugoslavia). In the light version then translated into Serbo-Croat (Serbian, this time) in a lamentable: Ederlezi translated by "djurdjevdan" San Jorge. A tremendous cultural invasion, given that it is a day Ederlezi annual holiday Balkan gypsies that, indeed, coincide with the celebration of St. George Balkan (celebrated on May 6 on your calendar that corresponds to our April 23) but has absolutely no roots but celebrates Orthodox spring and is the main gypsy party throughout the year, when they fill their homes with flowers and Marcelo to eat and sing in the streets. In any case, the version of Goran Bregovic everyone knows is the film, which regained its traditional text placed Roma and various choirs and voices to make it more impressive. And in any case, this is not the Ederlezi of Saban Bajramovic, although the letter looks like yours is less deep and less catchy. Maybe that's why he was less successful. Or perhaps this gentleman, happy, tiestero but extremely familiar, everyday, never became too famous outside of Yugoslavia. As everyone knows, his most famous song is Djelem Djelem. Did not write it but I interpreted it and made it famous. Both the Prime Roma Congress in 1971, the global gypsy anthem adopted:
guess what really impressed was the letter romanis rather than an ode to his own way to be a Gypsy, a song almost institutional. The chorus reads: I travel and long roads traveled Meeting
happy Gypsies traveled roads I travel and meeting long
happy Gypsies Oh, gypsy, gypsy brothers Oh Oh, gypsy, gypsy brothers Oh Oh, Roma, from anywhere. So far cool. What happens is that the rest of the text becomes pain in the ass and just saying "Come with me, Roma of the world / Roma where roads have been opened / is the time, rise Gypsy / If we try, we will succeed." Phew, that sounds demagogic and I like less, listen. Anyway, the song has been covered by at least a million times. Or more. Some people even think you have something to do with the origin of karma karma English Gypsy weddings, who sings this morning to celebrate the tissue pa. There is even a version, no less, that "Vaya Con Dios." The Belgian group that cheered my evenings in the frog jumping and it sounded in my van in Bosnia in 1993 and Bo I recorded on a CD. They chose the French version with the beautiful adaptation of "je l'aime, je l'aime", which sounds about the same. Anyway between his huge and impressive work highlights some other titles. Often they are, once again, songs that everyone here think they are from other people, including Bubamara (white cat, black cat) and, above all, the great Mesecina of underground attributed always (a again) Goran Bregovic and is a blatant copy of his " Djeli Mara" by simply changing the lyrics. Saban died in poverty in their small little apartment communist Nis. Never been too concerned about copyright and not charged for multiple versions of his songs that are performed daily (never a member of the SGAE, obviously). When a Serbian newspaper published last year living in poverty, the Government approved a small pension for their livelihood. But he went without pay royalties and being always versioned. Even the winners of Eurovision Song Contest Serbs 2007 (maki maki) used a version of his ... but it sure did not give the poor the infarction by those miseries, which mean, it certainly was not-but, perhaps, in some excesillo vital. Hopefully! At least, no one can say that Saban did not live decently! Well. "
