For Ibrahim Rugova
Heyyyy, Kosovo with your tirqe and plisa,Like white snow upon your head.Through the centuries they are rock and oak,That have survived since ancient times.
In this century that has now begun,Through the nests the mountains hold.The eagle soars high without rest,Piercing the skies, it knows no end.
Up on the Rugova Mountains,It is not only Haxhi Zeka.It is the portrait of Kosovo itself,That does not know what death is...
Ibrahim Rugova walks with the brave,His signature cast upon the crags.Sometimes with shots like lightning,He has gathered freedom in his fist.
He has drunk water from the river's flow,With words of a gentle wind he calls out.His voice, a white dove's melody,Kills the Serb and the treachery.
These Illyrian, ancient lands,Cannot be trampled by Russia or Serbia,There is no Count, King, or Pasha,Here, Albania is in command.
Heyyyy, Ibrahim, from a tribe of the braveThere where your foot has stepped.On the ridges and shoulders of the meadows,Every Serb was left speechless.
The springs flow, and the braveries,The birds take them and with a song,Send them to the gods,The mountains listen, standing solemn.
Here freedom knows no fear,For the lands they left to us.We protect them through centuries and years,With our chests and our souls.
Heyyyy.. Ibrahim, the brave man with sorrows,Here a step, beyond a bullet.In war you left the days of a life,A Skanderbeg of peace - a dove.
Whenever I go to the Rugova Gorge,I hear a shot in the Dragon oak,I read the history of Kosovo,Written by your calls...
The gorge takes them with a roar,Passes them on to field and mountain.O lightning-bright mind,A hero born, with a great soul!...
And my verse on paper today,I don't know why it flows so lightly.The rifle and the pencil laugh and cry,And bravery descends onto the page.
And the page together with my word,Flow slowly with the sounds of notes,With gunshots, but also with songs,Just like your bravery and your wisdom...
