Kosovo wedding

The words of a song fade in memory. The feeling it awakens lingers within us. We often return to that feeling, revisiting a song that appears as if by providence, finding it beside us by chance. Yet it seems the longest echo through the corridors of the heart is the melody, the sound, and the rhythm of its speech. It comes uncalled, and transforms us. After my first visit to Kosovo and Metohija, I remained silent for a long time. Impressions have their own time, arriving in their fullness only when we are no longer near what caused them. It was only one night in Belgrade that the green fields of Dečani came to my heart. Everything I had seen transformed into the melody of Solomon’s song. Thus was woven this tapestry of grace.

THE KOSOVO WEDDING

On the fields of Kosovo we sat and wept, remembering Israel. Endless fields, Kosovo fields.
Lead me, herald, for we will follow Christ,
to gaze from the peaks of Šar,
to bless from the heights of Prokletije. Whom does my soul behold? A prince crowned in death,
a people stepping into life through death.
A new Israel is named in blood. Where is this lineage? Pearls are priceless on the mountains,
black-feathered birds in the forests.
Whom do I call when the unjust arrives?
I seek the pearls of Dečani, the pearls of Gračanica;
whom does the dome of the Church conceal?
You test us and you know. I searched for my guardian but found him not;
the lineage of Nemanjić, the herd of Savina, tell me,
where does he sleep, where does he dwell?
Many struck me for His name,
mocked me for His truth; I wandered the mountains,
yet His name grows sweeter on my lips.

Tell us, you who remember, whom does your soul seek,
upon whom do you gaze from Šar’s peaks,
whose pearl do you seek in the clear streams?

Why do the oaks vanish?
Why have the great waters dried?
Leaves forget their roots,
rivers forget their springs
and vanish into oblivion. Life, I will not forget you, lest I die. The one my soul seeks is wonderful,
as light as autumn, his word is sweet,
scented like a peony, red with crimson blood.
Beautiful is He whom my soul seeks,
I will not forget Him. Lead me, for we will run after you!
Let us find life for our soul
on the fields of Kosovo, the high fields.
Let us sing under the domes of the churches,
let us chant beneath the arches of Dečani. The Nemanjić beards rejoice,
Serbian crowns are joyful,
their beards anointed with oil,
their words lifted to God. To whom do rivers flow, whom do the birds praise,
with them we will sing, with them we will flow. Behold the prince imperial, behold the sword of God,
his beard shines like light, his face is truth,
his crown is unified, his word Christ’s,
his swords are just. He is formidable as an army with banners,
shining like the warriors of Morava,
gleaming like the swords of Metohija. Behold, sing, they have gone to their Lord,
Kosovo heroes, sons of princes;
all bear swords, gazing at the clouds. The high Kosovo field, a ladder to the heavens,
through it flows the Sitnica, where Danica bathes.

They ride high on Kosovo fields;
who watches them from imperial courts,
who follows the foot of their thrones?

All lie as immortals,
behold, they bloom like peonies What shall I do with my soul
chorus of Serbs, chorus of Nemanjić, herd of Savina? Lead us, herald, we will follow Christ,
across endless fields, Kosovo fields,
over great heights, the heights of Metohija. Behold, the wedding procession crosses the red fields,
singing songs. Lambs skip,
the righteous rejoice.
Tall as the walls of Prizren,
they shine like Archangels.
They drank red wine,
they raised white bread. The prince suffered as the Emperor,
the people suffered as the Son,
the state arose and became a kingdom. And behold, a herald meets us, saying: Rejoice! Your kingdom is not Serbian, your kingdom is Christ’s!

I have a little sister, I care not for my belt;
what shall I say to my little sister?

Do not forget the fields of Kosovo,
the princely sons, the imperial princes.
Rejoice, O life, among the springs,
beneath the green canopies. Leave my sister, child of my mother,
her soul thirsty, her heart in pain;
He touches the heart and she smokes,
like fiery ovens, great flames. Remember the Kosovo wedding, gladden her thoughts,
so that the child of my mother, mother of Kosovo, does not wither.
She shall be the mother of Miloš, the mother of Lazar. Let us strike a song on gusle, god-voiced,
sing while the heart is aflame;
let the tongue meet our lips,
if I do not remember Him,
in the heart of the secret-keeper. Come forth, daughters of the other Israel,
and behold the emperor under the crown with which death adorns him,
on the day of the Kosovo wedding, on the day of his joy. Miloš Milićević
Faculty of Philology, Belgrade