She took me by the hand,Princess Argjiro,and through our history,we set out on a stroll.
Path by path through Illyria,weariness heavily overcame us,from the pages of history,blood flowed like a river.
Deeper still were,the wounds of Gjergj Elez Aliabeyond the pages of legends,drunk on raki.
My late grandmother,may her soul find light,was treating his wounds,with all her superstitions.
Good sister Argjiro,stroked my forehead with her hand,the fever that had gripped me,was burning even the mountain.
Those wounds of Gjergj,are the wounds of my homeland,one by one I took them,and held them in my embrace.
A book of verses,I began for the wounds in my embrace,the princess kissed me,history had no end.
And I called upon Mother Teresa,to bless these verses of mine,as true poets desire,let Albania be!
Nine wounds, nine stanzas,I was not thinking of symbolism,but with balsam the wounds,one by one I would heal.
