Land of the Vineyards
For Fahredin Shehu
Rahovec O Rahovec
blessed child of Dardania
to you I came
with my naïve poems
and simple dreams.
And there I was… in your bosom
as my eyes wandered
among the hills
and vales
that girded your slim waist
with vineyards –
the vineyards
where the Maenads dwelt
and turned every vine
into a little shrine.
My eyes fell
on the hanging grapes
that glittered like pearls
under the September sun
And there and then
I found me drunken,
and the whole world turning
before my eyes
into a giant poem
The Cunning Angel… A Song for Rahovec
O Rahovec,
little cunning angel that you are!
Didn’t you in the days of old
invite the reckless son of
mortal Semele
into your sacred land
to wine and dine
amidst your divine
vines
and take the secret recipe
back to Olympus?
And didn’t the Gods,
drunken with your hallowed
nectar,
crowned him god of viticulture
and holy wine?
On the Road to Freedom
But you, Kosovo, though you’re small
among the clans of Illyria,
though your body was perforated
your bare feet lacerated
bathing in your own blood,
you marched on the road to freedom
stepping on thorns and barbs.
And now:
The boisterous drums
that terrified your little ones…
NO MORE
The heavy boots
that on your silent roads
trod…
NO MORE
The alien winds
that broke the limbs of your
grapevines…
NO MORE
Asclepius
has healed your wounds
The angels
are singing your praises
Your glory
to heaven will rise
And your wine
will forever and ever flow.
