Near Prizren

I could not burry my father
for the first time
after the war when I went

toward empty roads of Prizren
with the thoughts of return
stepping Via Ignatia
where the temple without oracle was

In those mornings
two things I could not by-stand
the smell of Cilantro and
the rage of lust

Today when I zealously count my gray hair
whose in number exceeds
the written words
I did write in twenty-five years
my mouth is drying solely for a word
of a distant friend
who heals the wound of juvenile

distrust from there

We my love
are going to fast today
just as before, but
we shall look God
in the eyes of children
that sparkles
in each longing