When a Rose is blossoming in Kosovo…

My Love, it’s on the water of the fountains, My Love,
that the wind brings them over, My Love,
when the night falls, and we see them floating,
the rose petals.

My Love, even the walls have been chapping, My Love,
in the face of the Sun, the Wind, the Rain, and the Passing Years,
ever since that May morning, when they came.
And when singing, suddenly, out of their gunpoint,
they wrote on the walls
so many strange things.

My love, the rosewood follows the traces, My Love,
on the wall, and interlaces, My Love,
their names that are engraved; and every summer,
stunning is the roses’ red color.

My Love, the fountains go dry, My Love,
in the face of the Sun, the Valley Wind, and the Passing Years.
Since that May morning when they came
barefoot, walking slowly, and with the flower on the heart,
as their eyes were brightened with an odd smile.

And on this wall, when the night falls,
we think to see blood stains;
they are but roses,
Kosova, My Love!

Within hours, a rose will blossom in Kosova, the new country that finally enters the UN after so many decades of discriminations, persecutions, and diplomatic tergiversations.

For Kosova’s Albanians, nothing reflects better their Independence, won after so many torments, than this enchanting rose, same as the illustrious rose of Aranjuez that was so melodically conceived and so magically composed by Joachin Rodrigo (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlufLKsYot8). A rose grown against all, winds, rains, and long years of tears, denial, and adversity.

Kosova’s rose was always there, secretively blossoming within the Albanian hearts when no hope message was coming down to the streets of Pristina, Peja, Prizren, Roqove, Recak, Prekaz, and so many other cities, towns and villages.

Kosova’s rose encountered hundreds of thousands of barefoot internally displaced people whose only ‘mistake’ was that they were not Serbs.

Kosova’s rose bears many blood stains, as Kosova is the place of a river of blood shed because today’s Serbs did not have the chance to meet around them the past they imagined that it would reign forever.

And we still don’t know whether this venerable moisture on Kosova’s rose petals reflects the Albanian tears shed for the injustices made to them or incorporates the Kosovars’ sweat of agony, an interminable ebb and flow persistent during long moments of abandonment.

When Kosova’s rose will blossom, on the walls of the houses, as in permanent theater of shadows, will appear, eternally engraved, the names of all the Kosovar martyrs, who have been massacred over the terrible decades of the Serbian tyranny and darkness.

And the rivers will sweep away the Albanian tears to rinse Kosova’s rose and fold forever the memories of 1999 (http://www.alb-net.com/kcc/recak.htm and http://www.alb-net.com/warcrimes-img/rugove.htm) so that the young nation goes ahead as this was the plenipotentiary dream of all those who did not live to attest today the marvelous blossoming of the Kosova’s rose.

Who will not be marveled by the strength of the silent Kosovar smile that was Heat for them in the time of persecution, and is now illumination for so many other nations still expecting their roses to blossom?

Is this odd smile not a Gate for all of us to cross?

Does the modern Ladder to the Heaven start from Kosova?

Is it not the clarity of the Kosovars’ glance that can heal all the misperceptions and deceptions of our unbalanced world?

What can a foreign wanderer possibly say if summoned to the Rose of Kosova’s Eudemonia?

- As humble pilgrim, I bring to you my regret for so many Christians who forgot the words. As lucky passenger, who encountered a transcendent rose of eternal radiation, I convey the repentance of all those who acted against the brilliant Children of Kosova whose life so early found its way to Eternity. And as a mere traveler in the Land of Pristina’s Rainbow, I deposit my tears in the Labyrinth of your petals as atonement for those who sinned by spreading your colour on the breasts of the Kosovars in the Winter of the Darkness and the Shame.

- My Love, Rose of Kosova, there will be no more wind of persecution, no more witchcraft of hatred, and no more itinerary of death. Your colour enchanted the hearts of all the people, and your Moisture freshened the world anew. And what if some have not yet understood your gratuitous offer?

- Yes, my beloved Rose of Kosova, your melodious whisper in the autumnal night, your reticent dancing in the hibernal breeze, and your silent screaming in the spring zephyr are the seal of our crime, and the dimension of our sin. We have been too trifling not to see that you grew out of a rock watered with Albanian tears and blood. We have been too paltry not to open our eyes in front of your drama. We have been destitute and befallen apostles of egoism and egopathy, unable to notice that your petals were about to be burnt in the endless fire of the evil strife.

- And when the reasoning cares were swept over by cloudy doubts, My Love, Rose of Kosova, we forgot that all the Universe lived your Drama, having pity not for you, the Infinite Rose of Life and Dignity, but for us, humans bereft of humanity.

- Words do not exist, My Love, Rose of Kosova, to narrate our deeds; at your antipodes, deep in the precipices of the subterranean world, a black rose symbolizes our crime.

- And, You My Love, Sublime and Unfading Rose of Kosova, to save us all from the profundity we had fallen in, made amend of our transgression by extrapolating the black color of our thoughts and attributing it to the Eagle of your Children’s flag in order to conflagrate it in red and thus metamorphose it.

- This was the Dardanian Sun’s Spiral Heritage and the Evil’s Ultimate Ostracism. And this reveals our Dedication to You, My Love, Rose of Kosova, and to the Holy Land that took forever Your Color of Love.