Petar II Petrović-Njegoš
Vajtim (Motra Beatriçe ^të)

Where have you flown away from me,
O my falcon,
away from your most noble flock,
my dear brother?
Didn't you know the faithless Turks?
may God curse them!
Didn't you know they'd deceive you,
O lovely head?
My world is gone, forever lost,
my brother, my sun!
My deep wounds can never be healed,
my bitter wound!
My very eyes are plucked from me,
light of my eyes!
To whom did you leave your brothers,
brothers' glory?
And your grizzled father Pero,
woe to you, Pero!
Young sisters three bereft of you,
each a cuckoo?
Seven brothers' wives, with heads shorn[189],
O empty lives!
Why didn't you guard your handsome head,
human vila?
Why did you make the foe happy,
brotherly pride?
They cut you down on word of honour,
sneaky heathens!
How well they decked the Travnik[190] town,
God make them pay!
They decked it with your lovely head,
woe to us all!
Round whom will now soldiers gather,
O our leader?
Who will defend this border wing,
brotherly wing?
Who will cut down the Turkish heads,
O sharp sabre?
If you had died in bitter fight,
O warrior,
where young Serbian lads are vying,
O young lad,
to take their toll of arms and men
our wounds would heal.
But you trusted the faithless foe,
O faithful head!
If possible were it for me,
grieving sister,
to forget you in some way soon,
cuckoo I,
but your head was so wonderful,
O young brother!
Had you been right next to the tsar,
O clever head,
you would have been the tsar's vizier,
for your sister.
Had you been right next to the king,
O young hero,
you would have been his general,
O rose of mine!
If only I were able to talk,
you heart of mine,
with your speechless, dead head again,
woe unto me,
again to look in your dark eyes,
O eyes of mine,
to kiss your cold motionless head,
instead of live,
to comb again your locks of hair,
woe be to me,
and wind up your hero's turban,
wretched sister!
But you are now in the foes' hands,
may they reap death!
They will despoil your lovely head,
arch-enemies!
You will find there many brothers,
woe be to us,
all brothers there chosen falcons,
woe to brothers,
placed on the walls around Travnik,
may God curse it!
You may not know the brothers' heads,
O empty world,
because they have ravaged them all,
unbelievers!
What will happen to your young wife,
woe be to her!
And to your two hapless children,
poor orphans now?
And to your poor grand-dad Bajko,
O my Batric,
the grandfather who brought you up?
Woe be to him!
May your sharp wounds be forgiven,
O my Batric,
but not this dire calamity.
Woe to us all!
Our whole land has turned to Islam.
God's curse on it!
May the leaders turn into stones,
and their homes die!


All of the chieftains are crying. when they hear the name of Batric; they all come up crying to the mourning women. As they meet, they learn what has happened. The sister of Batric' embraces her grandfather; Knez Bajko. She grabs his knife and kills herself Bajko swoons and falls next to his dead grand-daughter.