When children play the game of war, The ground quakes under foot, The air smells like gunpowder, The water turns to a hue of colors. When children play the game of war, They dig pits, they dig graves, They smile quietly, cry out loud, Intuition keeps them hanging in the sky. When children play the game of war, Hearts beat at a fast pace, The weakened bodies require rest, The eyes look there, where hopefulness breathes.
Across the border
Persecuted on all sides with grounded hopes deep in our souls with the question almost dissolved on our lips will we meet again? Mother, brother, sisters, cousins and friends, The war adds meaning to life, comparable with nothing else. I fled the border that separates the buzz of war with a false calm; I look forward to doing something, Freedom to leak out of the sky!
©2022 Faruk Buzhala
All rights reserved
…is a well-known poet from Ferizaj, Kosovo, writing in his mother-tongue, Albanian. He was born in 9 March 1968 in Pristina. He is the former manager and leader of “De Rada,” a literary association, from 2012 until 2018, and also the representative of Kosovo to the 100 TPC organization. In addition to poems, he also writes short stories, essays, literary reviews, traveltales, etc. Faruk Buzhala is an organizer and manager of many events in Ferizaj. His poems have been translated to English, Italian, Spanish, French, German, Croatian and Chinese, and are published in anthologies in the U