Bosnian Elegy For Miljenko Jergovi Sing, young poet, touch my burning skin, darkened by long treks through the wild hills to the ends of the world. Don't give up now, though the gunners' fevered sights are trained on the stained facades of libraries and palaces constant reminders of a cruel century. The smell of gunpowder irritates the lungs. We haven't crossed the threshold. Speak, then, when the pools of unconsecrated water ripple.
Rings glow in the depths.
The past rejoices. It rots in silence. The dream of endless land, where the same name is spoken with the same dread. May your spit harden into crystal. May your hand caress no one.