Earthquake, storm, fire, hail,A bitter winter over the nest.Your birds, oh Dardania,Are migrating through the clouds.They seek a path through the storm,They seek a shelter without blood and tears.They seek a hand, a love,That through the centuries they could not find.They migrate and carry on their wingsAn aching longing and their freedom,From the river of blood that never driedAnd through the centuries wrote history.A bird of prey, a shell screechesOver an oak tree, over a hearth,It cuts down the young shoot of lifeAnd the dreams of a little angel.Where is this white-bearded old man goingLike Mount Korab covered in snow?In his beard you can readA history written across centuries.Where is this mother going with this cradleWith her breast bared like Rozafa herself?While she gives her child to drinkShe leaves the legendary milk behind.Why is this girl's lip tremblingLike a tree leaf in the storm?In tragedy and fire is burningHer life and her love.And this child who knows not where he goesHas tiny, feathery wings,He is flying with difficulty,Do not kill his beautiful dreams.They migrate, freezing and exhausted,To London, Berlin, and Rome,Airports wait for them uninvited,But speak of no solution for them.Rivers of people pour and pourSome to Shkodër, some to Berat,Without a goodbye they left the nestSearching for another fate.Rivers of memories follow behind themTo stay and to wait,They reach out their hands but cannot touch themThey remain only with the dead.This beautiful well in the courtyardLike a beautiful eye in the night,Sits and prays to GodTo grant it another fate.In answer, only gunshotsOver trees, courtyards, and lives,To deafen the truthThat knows and speaks only one language.Ah, this house without roof tiles, burned,With two windows like gouged-out eyes,What it has seen has left it breathlessA woman's breast, a slit throat..A warm hearth, a loveThat they never left in peace,Through thousands of centuries of historyUnder fire, gunpowder, and helmets.Under its ashes, under the embers of desiresFreedom rested, a rare dream,It always scattered in rainy nightsVesuvius flames, saying: - I am alive!Somewhere a head, somewhere a legScattered in valleys and fields,They are a heavy accusationFor Slobodan and the seed he bears.A flock of eagles through the cloudsMake hieroglyphs with wings and claws,They awaken a longing where she sleepsDardania, a noble lady.A wind blows over the valleyAn oak tree shakes its heavy branches,Above it the eagles come and goTo bring down the wind of freedom.A cradle rocks above itMother Dardania sings a lullaby,She weaves dreams with her beautiful voiceShe baptizes him with the name Liridon.The eagles pierce the skies and cloudsSo the migrated birds may return,To the old nest with a new historyFree, brothers united...Bottoms up: - CHEERS, KOSOVO!
PILO ZYBA
