When I was just a little child.
One evening I sat by the doorway,
the yard with flowers running wild,
and green the grasses all around.
Voices drifted from afar—
they watered their gardens there.
It must have been a full moon night;
the violets bloomed in the air.
The night owl cried out mournfully,
as if it had been wounded.
The stars shone high above the sky
like a diamond veil suspended.
From the peak of the mountain
the moon began to rise.
It lit the whole village below
like God’s own lantern in the skies.
I asked the moon
to tell me what it sees—
if there exists a place more beautiful
than this in all of nature’s seas.
You who are so high above
and watch the world below,
when you travel to the other side,
how do those other places show?
Wherever you may go on this earth,
whatever you may gain,
the life you lived as a child
you will never forget again.
Now that I am in Canada,
in the great and crowded city,
few stars appear in the sky—
only the moon shines with pity.
One evening I sat by the door
together with my little grandson.
We admired the beautiful night
while watching the small bright moon.
“Grandpa, where you grew up,”
asks the little child of me,
“who lives there now today,
and what is the house like to see?”
When I was a little boy
I used to ask the moon—
let us ask it now together
to grant us this small boon.
Soft clouds drifted slowly past
and covered the little moon,
yet it answered us falteringly
and spoke of the house soon.
“Bushes and thorns fill the yard,”
the little moon did say.
“The roof is falling down now,
and Albanians live inside today.”
The grandfather swallowed hard,
as though it were bitter poison,
and wiped his misty eyes
with his small white handkerchief.
“Do not cry, dear grandpa,”
the little grandson said.
“We will stay together—
I will build us a house instead.”
Sklithro-Zelenich-Sebalći 