Two Brothers from Canada

Two brothers from Canada

made up their minds one day

to go, for one last time,

to see their village far away.

They had a few small fields

and a little piece of land.

“We’ll sell them,” they both said,

“and drink some rakia while we can.”

They left their suitcases at the hotel

and started walking downhill.

They called someone on their cell

to say they’d reached the village still.

They stood before their old house

with mouths wide open in surprise—

the roof that once stood high above

was now fallen to the ground before their eyes.

Two Albanians passed by

and asked if help was needed there.

“The roof has fallen down,” they said,

“so the house can’t be sold, we fear.”

“Don’t worry about the roof,” they said,

“that part does not matter today.

The stones themselves are worth good money—

that’s where the value lies,” they say.

So they began to sort them out

and made two piles with care:

one pile big, one pile small—

“one for me and one to share.”

They stacked the stones up high,

the Albanians dressed in black,

yet even with the piles they made

the money still would lack.