My body collapses,
like buildings these days,
over the dead body of my sister.
Her skin still soft, still warm,
her hair caressing her round face
and closed eyes,
as beautiful as the first day I held her in my arms.
Maybe death is her blessing,
I think, crying the tears of my people,
maybe her heart is at rest now.

My neighbour died today,
I saw his blood painted over the ruins of this town,
I saw his five years old son crying,
lying next to him, holding his hand.
Take me with you, he said,
how could you leave me here in hell.
I walk away, my eyes ache
seeing all these broken spirits.
All these crying children.

I talked to an officer today,
his satanic smile made me want to rip his face off.
Yet, I thought, death would be to much
of a blessing for this man.
He shot my sister,
cold hearted, without hesitation.
He shot my sister,
her small body falling to the ground,
her eyes searching for mine for the last time,
as if to say goodbye, as if to say I made it.
He shot my sister, our sister.

Weeping upon her body,
holding her small hands that slowly turn cold and stiff.
I will visit you soon, I say,
and I will take care of you then, dear sister.

Jehona Thaqi © the picture is not mine