Drums in the dusk

Drums in the dusk in Peja
Clashing beats from different drummers
In the square
Mix into their own new beat
And even the beggars smile
In the street
As you walk by bronze giants.

Heroes holding bombs and tomes
History's blood and knowledge
Entombed
In staring statues with dogs at their feet
Listening still to the drums
In the dusk.

How many summers are left
To live like this?
Swanning about in the sun like
Renaissance royalty
Sutomore to Sarande
Podgorica to Pristina to Peja.
Lord Byron looking vain
For the legend
Of Ali Pasha's gold.

Another raki by the river
Run almost dry.
Another cappuccino by the beach
On the Adriatic with no space to spare.
Another cocktail on a hot summer evening
In the shade of the
Accursed Mountains.

While Europe burns.

How many summers are left
To live like this?

A storm drops
Sudden as a rockfall
From the Accursed Mountains
Sharp granite peaks slice the sky
Into jagged pieces.

An angry wind
Barks bitter thunder and
Dust blows dry between the first drops of rain.

Summer's diaspora disperses
From the cafés and the bars
Along the Lumbardh.
The drums silent in the thunder and

Somewhere a dog is barking.

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