St Sava

St Sava

By Vojislav Ilić

Who’s tapping this late peaceful night at
The gate of the Athonite monastery like that?
“The eve has passed, ‘tis black midnight,
Holy fathers, open this gate for me tonight!
My soul craves light and frail legs need rest,
Weary is my body, my legs respite request–
But strong is my will that leads me to your gate,
My life to my people and freedom to consecrate.
I forsook the tsarist court, crown and delight,
Now in this humble monastery I seek light.
Holy fathers, monks, open this heavy door,
Do welcome your youngest brother, I implore…”

The door creaked open, an owl sprang light,
And shrieking soared and flew into the night.
At the entrance to the shrine in God’s praise
The prior came to sight with a torch ablaze.
He rais’d the torch above his holy head, aw’d:
Before him stood a child, innocent and unshod.
Tho’ dishevelled, with a brow stern and high,
He seem’d noble and divine wisdom graced by.
The old man took his hand, kiss’d his brow,
And tearfully said: “Child, thou art one of us now.”

Since that strange night centuries have by gone,
Many have gone by and many are coming on,
But, that child lives on for still alive is his fame-
The child was Nemanja’s son, St Sava is his name.

Translation from Serbian by:
Ljiljana Parović

Sveti Sava

Ko udara tako pozno u dubini noćnog mira
na kapiji zatvorenoj svetogorskog manastira?
“Već je prošlo tavno veče, i nema se ponoć hvata,
Sedi oci, kaluđeri, otvor’te mi teška vrata.
Svetlosti mi duša hoće, a odmora slabe noge,
klonulo je moje telo, umorne su moje noge –
al’ je krepka volja moja, što me noćas vama vodi,
da posvetim život rodu, otadžbini i slobodi.
Prezreo sam carske dvore, carsku krunu i porfiru,
i sad, evo, svetlost tražim u skromnome manastiru.
Otvor’te mi, časni oci, manastirska teška vrata,
i primite carskog sina ko najmlađeg svoga brata…”

Zaškripaše teška vrata, a nad njima sova prnu
i s kreštanjem razvi krila i skloni se u noć crnu.
A na pragu hrama svetog, gde se božje ime slavi,
sa buktinjom upaljenom, nastojnik se otac javi.
On buktinju gore diže, iznad svoje glave svete,
i ugleda, čudeći se, bezazleno boso dete.
Visoko mu bledo čelo, pomršene guste vlasi,
ali čelo uzvišeno božanstvena mudrost krasi.
Za ruku ga starac uze, poljubi mu čelo bledo,
a kroz suze prošaputa: “Primamo te, milo čedo.”

Vekovi su prohujali od čudesne one noći, –
vekovi su prohujali i mnogi će jošte proći –
al’ to dete jošte živi, jer njegova živi slava,
jer to dete beše Rastko, sin Nemanjin, sveti Sava.

Резултат слика за sveti sava

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