This poem and painting are my husbands (propbably) most favourite things in Serbian History. For his 40th Birthday I decided to paint him the painting (a replica) as a gift.
Both the work and history are very monumental and important to the Serbian Nation, and I hope I do justice to this work. The pressure is ON!!!!!!
Just a bit of backround info on this painting for those of you interested is listed below.
This Poem and Pinting was based on the Kosovo Battle in 1389!!
Artist - Uros Predic
(Kosovo 1389- The most important battle in Serbian history took place at Kosovo field on 28 June 1389 between armies led by the Serbian Prince Lazar and the Ottoman Turk Sultan Murad. The result, though inconclusive, (The battle of Kosovo is generally seen as a victory for the Ottomanshas ) been celebrated since in Serbian epic poetry as a defeat of great mystical significance, ushering in the end of Serbia's independence and the start of four centuries of Ottoman, Muslim domination and occupation over the people of Serbia. No accounts by participants in the battle survive, though it is accepted that both Murad and Lazar were killed. It is also estimated that over 100,000 lives were lost, although others claim three times large numbers than that were lost.)
The Maiden of Kossovo
(first two verses of the poem)
Early rose the maiden of Kossovo,
Early rose she on a Sunday morning,
Rose before the brilliant sun had risen.
She has rolled the white sleeves of her robe back,
Rolled them back up to her soft white elbows;
On her shoulders, fair white bread she carries,
In her hands two shining golden goblets,
In one goblet she has poured fresh water,
And has poured good red wine in the other.
Then she seeks the wide plain of Kossovo,
Seeks the noble Prince's place of meeting,
Wanders there amongst the bleeding heroes.
When she finds one living midst the wounded
Then she laves him with the cooling water,
Gives him, sacramentally, the red wine,
Pledges with her fair white bread the hero.
Fate at last has led her wand'ring footsteps
Unto Pavle Orlovitch, the hero,
Who has borne the Prince's battle-standard.
From his gaping wounds the blood is streaming,
His right hand and his left foot are severed--
And the hero's ribs are crushed and broken,
But he lingers still amongst the living.
From the pools of blood she drags his body
And she laves him with the cooling water,
Red wine, sacramentally, she gives him,
Pledges then with fair white bread the hero.