It is all gone, the youth, you and I,
Whom I still recognize,
Hunched beneath an open umbrella,
Holding hands and kissing, albeit everything
Melted away like frost in spring,
Like a snowman trodden by children.
To everything that is, and everything that was, I will testify that
Many bells once echoed over Prizren!

I still play with one string torn
That scratches my sleepy eyes
Like windblown desert dust
And my skin is like a December, hoarse and cold,
So different from the velvety silk.
Elegantly cloaked in the songs of love,
You are going strong, tall and broad,
While I silently testify that
Many bells once echoed over Prizren!

Like a wounded Holy Virgin of Ljeviš
Above the roaring river Bistrica,
Alone among the desecrated relics
I beckon you to a morning liturgy
Even though everything is empty, except us,
The shivering travellers from afar,
Because a long time ago I swore before God
That I will love you forever.
And there, among the burning candles,
I would quench your thirst by testifying that
Many bells once echoed over Prizren!

You, a fool with angelic eyes,
You, who won’t let me cry,
Come here and don’t be shy,
We shall go down into a deep mine
Searching for the lost dove,
Brought a long time ago by the merchants of Kotor
As an offering to Milutin.
Have mercy on me, my fragile soul,
With the blood still caked under my nails
And the warmth in the eye of the lake, let me testify that
Many bells once echoed over Prizren!

Under the Hills and Plum Trees

I know that you’ve always dreamed of holding your own sons,
Even while you were just a boy in short pants
Going with the men to fish carp
In the spring, with your pockets full of golden corn.
For those unborn sons you were prepared to do anything
Even to die in line for the water at the Čukur fountain
So that gusle players could sing about you in decasyllable!

I know that you could recite the songs about
Karađorđe and the old man Fočo, in one breath;
I know that to you your grandfather’s word was a holy book
On which you swore;
I know that a mountain lodge was your birth house...
Until the thread broke somewhere,
The well dried up, and the old water mill
Forever stopped!

I know that you waged countless wars,
Shot yourself in the heart, echoing wide and clear.
In my dreams, I can always hear
The sound of hooves of a frightened horse,
Of a foal running behind a mare,
Accompanied by horsemen, women and children
And the army that paves the Constantinople road!

I know that you still keep the icon
Of the Holy Seven Young Men of Ephesus,
And the wooden cross that I brought you
As a gift from the monks who live far, far away.
May they protect your sons and grandchildren,
Under the hills and plum trees
That haven’t forgotten the foreign armies and slavery!

Jefimija Is My Name

You gave me everything, Lord,
And you took everything from me.
From me, a daughter of a Serbian nobleman
Who followed the Emperor on the last
Trip to the Holy Mountain.
From me, the wife of despot Uglješa Mrnjavčević,
Before whom the entire Byzantine court bowed its head.
From me, the wisest and the softest
Among the earthly servants.
To me, to despotess Jelena,
Only pain and misery you have left,
With silk yarn, distaff and silver thread
As my shield,
To water this wretched land,
Lost on St. Vitus Day,
With a tear from my grieving heart,
Instead of your blessed rain.

I have nothing, Lord,
I have lost everything –
My father, my husband and my son –
A barbarian foot stomps across my empire,
My church bells are forever voiceless,
Everywhere I go, I carry a heavy doom with me.
In my dreams,
Under the trembling candle light,
Ravens tear apart Lazar’s corpse.
My Maričkokolo is mute,
As peonies in bloom and spilled blood
Paint Kosovo Field red.
While from the East
A young and powerful Sultan marches
With his cavalry to sow death,
In the imperial lure, beyond my reach,
Instead of in my arms,
My little son sleeps eternally,
In Hilandar’s mossy embrace.

Jefimija is my name, Lord,
Barren Serbia is my home,
Deep in a cell of Ljubostinja.
Now, I am a sorrowful nun,
Who owns but a cross and a cassock,
Who embroiders in gold
Cyrillic letters on red silk,
Who, kneeling before the Sultan,
Begs him for mercy to save our children
And young emperors, Vukan and Stefan,
From death.

Confession to the Holy Virgin of Savina

I’ve come from far away, guided by God’s hand
On my road of cross bearing, on the road of the God-Man.
To confess to you,
The Holy Virgin of Savina,
To leave a votive pearl necklace
In the monastery, near the Old Town,
Where Stefan Kosača wintered,
Seeking refuge from frostbite, the Ottomans, and the Venetians,
Surrendering his life to the hands of God
And to the justice of his sword!

All night long the beasts were howling
After me, in search for prey.
I still dream of gaping jaws,
With greed and hunger
Dripping from them.
Although I’m not an innocent child anymore,
I need a table, an icon and Cyrillics
To summon the emperor in Prizren,
To kiss our Patriarch’s hand in Peć.
My grandfather taught me
That wolves are the hounds of Saint Sava
And that you can tell a Serb by his slava and fresco!

Uninvited, I’ve come from far away,
Like a hunted nun from a burning monastery,
Who heard the bells of a sacred temple.
That evening, the rain poured on the coast
As if it had not rained for centuries,
And the scent of cypress was all-embracing.
While in the dusk the monks
Performed the Supplicatory Canon
For health and salvation,
A black tear from a black eye
Fell off and stained the imperial gates!

Translated from Serbian by Irina Vujičić and Ivana Tomić