An oldness in its mohallas, an udaasi echoes

Inside canyons of human tragedy, together

It's people and I transmute into told tales.

 

At the table of evidence, this crusted pie—

The astonished hamam gazing at the sky

Narrow lanes weaving through soundscapes.

 

Flora of language as vast as the clearing

In Sarajevo’s town square, breaths present

Bazaars of opulent history straddle darkness

 

Into the light, expect warmth they said

I agreed, shifting soon to the mountains

Indulging in the melancholy of sevdalinka

 

Just another lady in Tuzla, strolling through

Bazaars, eating burek for breakfast, palette

never felt more in witness, the word badaam

 

Never felt so known, I gather all—

Its strangeness, the repetition, of resilience

Was I once laid to rest here, too? right here

 

Mark Dizdar recited at memorial gatherings

Scars of war visible like wildflowers, colors

Mocking the world that weeded them out

 

Warmth sprouts all summer into sidewalks

I stand and stare at a bent woman tending

Her roses, I adjust my hat and sip my rakija