A "Song of Defiance" by Dobrica Eric

The following is an English translation of the poem, A Song of Defiance", written by Serbian poet, Dobrica Eric in the 1990's. A Song of Defiance English Translation

I the servant of God, the Serb, announce willingly through chains and wires before the witnesses Power, Agony and Injustice, that I am guilty and admit my crime! I am guilty that I am a somebody and not a nothing and a nobody. I am guilty that in a time of general Serb-hating I go to an Orthodox Christian church and make the sign of the cross like this, with three fingers! I am guilty of being, when I ought not to be. I have been guilty for a long time now of standing upright and gazing upon Heaven, instead of the grass. I am guilty of having stood up to injustice. I am guilty, of once again honoring my patron saint. I am guilty of reading and writing Cyrillic. I am guilty of singing, of laughing, and I am guilty, this I admit, of knowing what I do know,

and knowing what I do not know. I am guilty, to end with my greatest crime. I am guilty of being stubborn and of being an Orthodox Christian and a follower of Saint Sava and of not believing in such things as "a holy crime". I am guilty then of existing, and while already being and rudely standing, of not admitting that I do not exist. If I admit that I do not exist in order to save my head, I will lose the venerable Cross and my patron saint. If I do not admit that, my outlook is bleak, then the entire world will harass my nation. Hoards of former people thieves and vagrants, packs of robots and other monsters, will attack my orchards and fields and my white house along the road around which, as the loveliest of maidens, blossom cherries, apples, and plums. So here, I admit this too, for the salvation of my people. I no longer exist. Remove me from your list. I am from now on only air, light and water, three useful elements. And this thing that before you walks and talks, that is what you have made of me!

My enemy with a thousand hands, a thousand servants and false handmaidens, you have plucked my sun as you would an apple and my joy as you would a poppy among the rye. My descendents shall drink despair and bitterness. But yours already drink bitter honey-wine for the blood money which fills your money belt from the sale of my ancestral land. Fate will give you a straight jacket, and then there will come daylight, or the planet will burst from shame , and bury us all in the abyss! You must be very important, you, my dear Land, and your sisters Truth and Justice, since so many powers have arisen against you, and Untruth and Injustice stand before you with jaws agape. Hoards of former people, thieves and vagrants, packs of robots and other monsters, already surround your orchards and fields and my white house along the road around which, as the loveliest of maidens, blossom lindens, apples, and plums. What do these warriors of jihad, and of crusade, these farmers that torture your sons and daughters seek? These worldly bands must have heard

that we have golden hearts, so they are removing them to transplant them into their own torsos in hopes that they, too, will become people. My respected prosecutors, my judges and executioners, you have written out your commandments for me all over your pupils, of the finest of glass. The harder it is for me to live, the easier it will be for me to die. You have gone too deep into a late dark night, but you will lynch in vain the most hospitable nation on the planet, because human hearts, miracle of miracles, cannot be transplanted into your inhuman torsos! We do not fear death, or the darkness, but rather we fear a slave's life and lengthy illness. Death is a frequent occurrence among the Serbs just like spring, summer, autumn and winter, and it is no worse, especially by day, than drought, floods, earthquakes, and frost, when a man meets these on his own land with censed soul and clear conscience. You who wish us harm, satiated and mad, you have forbidden me all in my own home, but nobody can forbid me to sing and to laugh while dying, two things you no longer do even while celebrating a marriage

or birth of your kind. Spare me the stake and rope, and crucify me on a mountain top just as your forbearer crucified my forbearer, Jesus Christ the Nazarene. I shall watch, but you shall close your eyes, otherwise they will burst from the glow of my face. Just hurry because the sooner you crucify me the sooner I will resurrect. You can also read the poem and hear it recited by Ivana Zigon in the Serbian language on The Holy Theotokos church website. The video also shows the damage and destruction done both by the Albanians to Kosovo's ancient churchs and the 1999 NATO Bombing of Yugoslavia, along with some songs performed by Ivana Zigon.

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