Kad mlidijah umreti

Lisje žuti veće po drveću,

Lisje žuti dole veće pada;

Zelenoga više ja nikada Videt neću!

Glava klonu, lice potavnilo,

Bolovanje oko mi popilo,

Ruka lomna, telo izmoždeno,

A kleca mi slabačko koleno!

Dođe doba da idem u groba.

Zbogom žitku, moj prelepi sanče!

Zbogom zoro, zbogom beli danče!

Zbogom svete, nekadašnji raju, –

Ja sad moram drugom ići kraju!

O, da te tako ja ne ljubljah žarko,

Još bih gledo tvoje sunce jarko,

Slušo groma, slušao oluju,

Čudio se tvojemu slavuju,

Tvojoj ruci i tvojem izvoru –

Mog života vir je na uviru!

O, pesme moje, jadna siročadi,

Deco mila mojih leta mladi’!

Htedoh dugu da sa neba svučem,

Dugom šarnom da sve vas obučem,

Da nakitim sjajnim zvezdama,

Da obasjam sunčanim lučama…

Duga bila, pa se izgubila,

Zvezde sjale, pa su i presjale,

A sunašce ono ogrejalo,

I ono je sa neba mi palo!

Sve nestade što vam dati spravlja –

U traljama otac vas ostavlja.

ENGLISH TRANSLATION

God of Justice; Thou who saved us
when in deepest bondage cast,
Hear Thy Serbian children’s voices,
Be our help as in the past.
With Thy mighty hand sustain us,
Still our rugged pathway trace;
God, our hope; protect and cherish
Serbian crown and Serbian race!

Bind in closest links our kindred
Teach the love that will not fail,
May the loathed fiend of discord
Never in our ranks prevail.
Let the golden fruits of union
Our young tree of freedom grace;
God, our Master! guide and prosper
Serbian crown and Serbian race.

Lord! Avert from us Thy vengeance,
Thunder of Thy dreaded ire;
Bless each Serbian town and hamlet,
Mountain, meadow, heart and spire.
When our host goes forth to battle
Death or victory to embrace-
God of armies! be our leader
Strengthen then the Serbian race.

On our sepulchre of ages
Breaks the resurrection morn,
From the slough of direst slavery
Serbia anew is born.
Through five hundred years of durance
We have knelt before Thy face,
All our kin, O God! deliver,
Thus entreats the Serbian race.

ANA IVANOVIC

Roland Garros trophy presentation photos

June 26, 2008 / Serbian woman today

“You don’t know what she will say; though there are no guises. These poems are clear, in a darkly charming voice, disavowing and avowing, honest and cutting. I like them a lot.”—Alice Notley, writer

Desanka Maksimovic the best Serbian  woman

who wrote poems

I Don’t Have Any More Time

I don’t have any more time for long sentences,
I have no time for negotiations,
I type messages like telegrams,
I don’t have time to ignite flame,
now I bury handfuls of dying fire.
I don’t have any more time for pilgrimage,
the path to estuary is suddenly getting shorter,
I have no time to look back and return,
I don’t have any more time for small things,

Now is time to think about eternal and unembraceable.
I have no time to think on crossroads,
I can arrive only somewhere close.
I don’t have time to study anything,
now I don’t have time for analysis,
for me water is just water
as if I had drank it from a well;
I have no time to split the sky into pieces,
I see it as children see it.
I don’t have any more time for foreign gods,
I haven’t even got to know mine well.
I have no time to adopt new commandments,
the old ten are already too much for me.
I don’t have any more time to join
those that are proving the truth.
I have no time to fight against chasers.
I have no time to dream, to walk slowly.

EUROSONG 2007 – THE WINNER IS MARIA SERIFOVIC FROM SERBIA!

And serbian woman from past:

art

Jovano, Jovanke,

You sit by the Vardar, Bleaching your white linen,

Bleaching your white linen, my dear,

Looking at the hills.

Jovano, Jovanke,

I’m waiting for you,

To come to my home,

And you don’t come, my dear,

My heart, Jovano.

Jovano, Jovanke,

Your mother, won’t let you go,

Come to me, my dear,

My heart, Jovano.

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S I M O N I D A

(A FRESCO IN GRAČANICA)

Your eyes were gouged out, oh beautiful image,
On a pilaster at approach of night,
Knowing that no one would witness the pillage
An Albanian’s knife robbed you of your sight.

But neither your mouth, nor your noble face
To desecrate with his hand did he dare,
Or touch your golden crown, or queenly lace
Beneath which lay your luxuriant hair.

Now in the church upon the stone pilaster
Serenely bearing your tormented plight
Dressed in the robes of mosaic and luster
I see you sad, and dignified, and white.

Like stars extinguished in the distant past,
Which yet transmit to men the far-off glow
So that men see the light, the hue, the cast
Of stars lost to sight a long time ago,

Today upon me from your royal height,
From that antique stone covered all in grime,
Oh, sad Simonida, shines down the light
Of eyes gouged sightless in another time.

Milan Rakić