
As a child, I first met you on an uphill Phanari
side street.
A hanging lamp in the Byzantine Temple lit
your kind face.
Were you, I wonder, one of the myriad faces
that Constantine Palaiologos assumed and left
behind?
Boyaca, Ayacucho, bright and eternal concepts.
I was there.
We had passed through there to the old borders.
Far behind, they had started the fires in Leskovik.
During the night, the army climbed up toward
the battle
from where familiar sounds were heard. Next to
it, going down, endless busses carried
the wounded.
Don’t let anyone get disturbed. Down there is
the lake.
They’ll pass through here, behind the cane fields.
The roads were compromised: work and glory to
Hormovitis, who is famous for such things.
The whistle is heard. To your positions, march!
Come, dismount the horses. Put the cannons
in their positions, get a towel, clean the bores,
light fuses, hold them tight.
The cannon balls are to the right. Vras!
Vras, fire, in Albanian: Bolivar!

