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Not worth the healthy bones of a single Pomeranian grenadier.

If there is ever another war in Europe, it will come out of some damned silly thing in the Balkans.

Balkan graveyards are full of the broken promises of Slobodan Milosevic.

No history much? Perhaps, only this ominous dark beauty flowering under veils,
trapped in the spectrum of a dying style: a village like an instinct lift to rust, composed around the echo of a pistol-shot.

Serbs out, Nato in, refugees back.

The name is history. The thick miljacka flows under its bridges through a canyon’s breadth fretted with minarets and plump with domes, cupped in its mountains, caught on a drawn breath.