One September morning,
The day was bright with sunshine.
The village was full of people,
Just as on every day.
All the men gathered
At Mishle’s corner,
They were not joking much —
Great anxiety weighed on them.
Grandfather Mitos sat
Beneath his window,
Rejoicing with fellow villagers,
Together with his grandson.
The little sheep were grazing
Along the mountainside;
Their bells could be heard
Like music to the ears.
The cowherd was nearing
Tsernets with his herd,
While the housewives prepared
Something for the evening meal.
A gentle breeze was blowing;
Midday was approaching.
It was beautiful in the village,
Like a second summer.
Horse carts thundered
Along the cobblestone streets;
They hurried to gather the crops —
Potatoes and clover.
Children’s voices were heard
In every little street,
Jumping tirelessly,
Innocent little creatures.
Then suddenly was heard
A burst of machine-gun fire.
They knew from other times
That the cannons would follow.
The calm was shattered
Once again,
And with great composure
They gathered all the children.
Everyone ran to their homes
Seeking protection,
Before the shells struck the village,
To hide themselves away.
And a nine-year-old girl,
Who had gone to her grandmother’s,
Was missing from her home,
And her family was frantic.
Grandmother Lena felt a premonition
But could not explain it.
Three times she warned her
Before sending her off:
“My Kati, I beg you,
So that no harm comes to you —
I tell you for your own good,
Do not pass by Mishle’s corner.
Go by Mama Gafa’s house
And hide there.”
She reached the courtyard gate,
But it was closed.
She slipped underneath to hide
And called for her grandmother,
But everyone had already gone inside;
No one was near her.
Six cannons fired
All around the neighbourhood
Until they struck
Mishle’s corner.
The seventh then fell
Beside the corner,
Exploding in a barn,
Causing great destruction.
Mito Stoikos was killed,
And Tasos, his grandson;
Dinkas Kougios as well,
Together with his horse.
And the wagon driver from Xino Nero,
Who was simply doing his work —
There it was written for him
To meet his death.
Crying, screams, and panic —
Grief flooded the village.
That beautiful morning
Ended in historic mourning.
Young and old ran
To see what had happened;
They witnessed an unjust fury
That shattered the peace.
It is a sorrowful fragment
From that time,
And we pray to God
That their memory be eternal.
Sklithro-Zelenich-Sebalći 