An excerpt from my journal.
A white written longing for freedom, burned by the busy flames of a love for the homeland. The red letters of fire and the gray plumes that clearly seemed to pass the wounds of the sheet. Rows of other crumpled sheets arranged.
The sky is no longer blue and does not give the light of the Monday sun, but the ashes of the smoke of the flame. It's like a painful cold, withered love. Everywhere burned and ruined roofs, the courtyards covered with planks weak to support the roof pole.
And the children have left behind their broken youth, with their clothes torn and some bloody, getting lost between the road and the darkness of life. They are running away from life, from their bloody country, from the tired Gjakova of 1999. Flame and fire, the crisms that brought their oil. These are precisely the tearful faces that are being cruelly killed by the Serbian fascists.
It is torture of the soul to see a baby lying with a knife in the face, a bayonet cut in the body, with a bullet in the chest, with the head torn off, with the ashes of the body completely burned, everything is aggravating pain. And the shadowy scenes in this hurt city appeared smiling with the rhythm of freedom.
And that child who was torn from his mother's hands and breast, that child who was pierced with a bayonet, was in his sister's arms and slept peacefully, while they took away his property and the right to enjoy his freedom, but they were not satisfied with that. they wire it to an electric pole.
Yes, Besmir was violently killed, what was his fault, Besmira with wounds on the head and chest, Drilon crushed by the police officer, the children of the family Vejsa, Caka, Hoxha and Haxhiavdyli mercilessly burned alive, Edmondi shot with tools stabbed in the head, Labinoti killed by gunshots to the head and limbs, and many, many others who shook them from life mercilessly... what was their fault?
And this age that burdens a division of pains, never to be forgotten, a division led by eternity written in cursive letters of pride, the children of glory, the children of the blood of my homeland.
Cursed are those who tread on anything created with blood, cursed with roots.
Glory..!
A white written longing for freedom, burned by the busy flames of a love for the homeland. The red letters of fire and the gray plumes that clearly seemed to pass the wounds of the sheet. Rows of other crumpled sheets arranged.
The sky is no longer blue and does not give the light of the Monday sun, but the ashes of the smoke of the flame. It's like a painful cold, withered love. Everywhere burned and ruined roofs, the courtyards covered with planks weak to support the roof pole.
And the children have left behind their broken youth, with their clothes torn and some bloody, getting lost between the road and the darkness of life. They are running away from life, from their bloody country, from the tired Gjakova of 1999. Flame and fire, the crisms that brought their oil. These are precisely the tearful faces that are being cruelly killed by the Serbian fascists.
It is torture of the soul to see a baby lying with a knife in the face, a bayonet cut in the body, with a bullet in the chest, with the head torn off, with the ashes of the body completely burned, everything is aggravating pain. And the shadowy scenes in this hurt city appeared smiling with the rhythm of freedom.
And that child who was torn from his mother's hands and breast, that child who was pierced with a bayonet, was in his sister's arms and slept peacefully, while they took away his property and the right to enjoy his freedom, but they were not satisfied with that. they wire it to an electric pole.
Yes, Besmir was violently killed, what was his fault, Besmira with wounds on the head and chest, Drilon crushed by the police officer, the children of the family Vejsa, Caka, Hoxha and Haxhiavdyli mercilessly burned alive, Edmondi shot with tools stabbed in the head, Labinoti killed by gunshots to the head and limbs, and many, many others who shook them from life mercilessly... what was their fault?
And this age that burdens a division of pains, never to be forgotten, a division led by eternity written in cursive letters of pride, the children of glory, the children of the blood of my homeland.
Cursed are those who tread on anything created with blood, cursed with roots.
Glory..!
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