My Homeland Is Hoarse
By Fatmir Terziu
I was hoarse. My hoarseness was not felt. It was foreign
in front of the mirror,
a smoky glassy word
slimy like the mouth of the green devil.
When even the birds cursed the country borders
with their hoarse sound
they remained blind.
We were hoarse. My homeland was hoarse.
The hoarsness became the prototypical wound
of the Beautiful Albanian Language.
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