This horse of mine, Gjergj's horse,is not that horse of betrayal,he comes trotting into these verses,along the paths of history.
Alas, he cannot find rest,he wants more springs, more fields,I feed him rhymes to eat,he drinks his fill from the river.
He turns around swiftly,he strikes the earth with his hooves,oh my, his heart,refuses the title of bey.
He said in Prishtina,in Shkup and in Tirana,get my back ready,Gjergj is asking for it.
Get out, he told the Turk,you are as black as you were,I am the one who made history,your place is in Asia.
We do not allow them in schools,neither religion, nor headscarves,the Albanian tongue sings the song:“This land is not Turkey”.
He ran and left behind a whistle,like the north wind when it blows,he shook his mane and whinnied,so as not to enter into marble.
