I crossed the mountains of Albania,
so long desired, with sweet nostalgia,
from the farther shore of Otranto’s sea,
when I went seeking the sirens’ melody.
The royal eagle of the Balkans
wreathed my head in laurel bright,
and for one evening I was queen of the night.
A gentle white mongrel, quiet and tame, escorted the poets
along the promenade of the Petit Paris,
to the feverish rhythms of a last goodbye.
A procession of laughter and embraces
put sleep aside until the morrow,
mingling languages and souvenirs,
delaying still the taxi home.
Korce, for the thirtieth edition
of its Nights of Poetry,
was brimming with saudade blended with gaiety,
while granting a childhood dream to me.