Motherland, you always remind me that I straddle between two worlds no matter where else I find home.
I love how your streets fill with jovial old men spilling out of pubs.
Marked with age spots and calloused, sleepy bones.
Bosnia? Where’s that — I’m often asked.
I smirk and tell them it’s the forgotten metropolitan of Europe
Where east meets west, and where over the rugged terrain the sun basks.
I never understood why I had to grow up in another man’s land
When mine was pulled from underneath my feet.
But I made the most out of the deck of cards life placed in my hands.
The war hardened you and your soil.
But you still bloomed some of the most tender souls and colorful landscapes.
Because the most tender spirits revive from turmoil.
So as I watch and consume the current global affairs
And how painstakingly familiar this plight looks
I can’t help but wonder how my people got spared.
