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11 lives lost P. 3

By Ilir BUSHI I still want to take the children of Merdar the crumbs, to leave the living spark of light in their moved and wounded corners, while in their tired eyes the lost light of the twilight of tragedy may flash and shine. Beyond the dirty dunes of Bivor, dark stakes with sheep tails, before which my mother shows me her drowned face so as to forgive the happy muddle of the lies of the pseudo-politicians, who want to force Kosovo with the syndrome of our tearful and bloodied crowds, yet change our spirit with the larvae of communism and the beyond of the times. I still want to take the crumbs from the children of Merdar, to leave the living spark of light in their moved and wounded corners, while in their tired eyes the lost light of the twilight of tragedy may flash and shine. Beyond the dirty dunes of Bivor, dark stakes with sheep tails, before which my mother shows me her drowned face so as to forgive the happy muddle of the lies of the pseudo-politicians, who want to force Kosovo with the syndrome of our tearful and bloodied crowds, yet change our spirit with the larvae of communism and the endlessness of the times. Beyond the walls of the houses and the ruined houses of my village of Koliq, where the miserable children of the lost moment wander after the black cloud of fire. Among the unseasoned little kittens of violence in the abandoned streets. Death is swift at the corner of the shoulders. A flute of frozen courage. This silence tries to cover the truth. Children, their eyelashes have lost the green tear. Adriallur. In vain the other one sleeps in the clouds of fire. On the lost edges of this village, in the mud of poverty, the scorched earth, and the accusations of pseudo-manhood, among the lost stones of time. With frozen looks amid the quiet after the terror. Among the faces of death that seem to stretch out from the wretched clouds. Among the cry of the relatives that place with the shaving. Among the worm-eaten holes of the century, among the lost time that has especially with us the wounds of suffering. Among the swollen tears of these children. Among the gray ash. Among the burned fire. Among the children with lost gazes in the frost of hell. Why? When the light of the clouds opens at dawn, to sing to the time, which seemed far too late, in the eyes of the children, which resemble a candle come out of photographs of desolation, the voice of truth is no longer enough for them! Even though hopes, these eyes moved to tears. The earth filled with death. Their people lost. To the unfinished question… How do you save that pure soul? How do you soothe the sorrow of such a child who remains without mother, without father and without light? Where can we find today that strength to rise above all this, when time itself is taking our breath away? P. 8

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RESOLUTION OF THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY OF PR COOPERATION FOR A NEW ELECTORAL PROCESS

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