History on his head
He wore a black mountain kapa
Black border, red blood center, white war braid
Black for Kosovo Polje, swarming with Turks
Red for Kosovo Polje, bleeding his fathers’ blood
White for the wars and the strength of his cause
A millenium halved in war
A mountaineer in love with hate
A warrior from Crna Gora
Italians had swarmed over the border
Had stolen the capitol of Cetinje
Now he guides his men for the black mountain
“A friend can cross the karst in 6 hours,
a foe – maybe never,” his ancient boast
Yet Turks, Italians and he face the same curse.
No longer black, the mountain is bone-grey,
Limestone, melting in the rain,
Sagging into the face of a skull.
