Thank God We Were Not Birds

Serbian police attack, February 25th, 1990, Prishtina, Ulpiana apartment complex

9:15 p.m., after curfew

The candle's light
waves at the moon
through the long hours of confinement

In the warmth of the apartment
two terrorists are sharpening their weapons:
I’m reading Dictionary of the Khazars
my daughter, Little Red Riding Hood

The tv is muttering to itself:
The House For Hanging


9:30 p.m., after curfew

Lightning slashes the sky
as bullets from the tanks
spit fire
into the apples of our eyes

Night unleashes the madness
of ancient savagery
and it breaks into our apartment
utterly without shame

Tear gas bullets
release their poison
and I don’t know
if there’s more in the air
or in the womb

Air! Air!
the terrified walls cry out
the vases break down in tears
the candle shivers in horror
and Satyr tears his skin

Air! Air!
I call out silently
like a helpless human animal
forgetting the fruit of my womb

How could you call me a mother?
May my heart break.
My child is goggling her eyes at me
while I gasp for air

Neither ocean water nor tears 
can absolve me, because in that moment,
because in that thousandth part of oblivion:

the child is writhing for air
in one corner of the apartment
and her mother in the other
that mad night of February 25th, 1990


10:30 p.m., after curfew

We hear no more chirping.
The one week old bird, a birthday gift,
has splayed its wings
in a last goodbye

Mother and daughter
cling tightly to one another

Tears of bitterness
push out tears of poison

Tears of fear
become tears of love

In the night without order, without laws

Thank god we were not birds



Përjetësi, Dukagjini, Pejë, 2001 Translated by Anna Guercio and Tomislav Kuzmanovic