Peja,
at the foot of the Cursed Mountains
that as old men,
with raindrops on top,
the heavens assemble.
Deeply eroded, scratched,
Rugova Gorge.
Up the mountains the backs stretch out,
murana flijimi,
where patience eats its silence,
with tears of waterfalls,
pass the eyes of passers-by.
Time has flowed river,
but the bed of goods has not dried up.
From impatience cries:
You waited for me early,
I’m coming!
The throat swallows the voice …
A smell confuses me, it numbs me.
I land in the air,
and forgetfulness takes me.
…
Peja,
My hometown,
in the grip of grief!
