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Soldiers on holiday fill the outdoor café. A young man has just jumped off the old bridge for their money, on his chest a tattoo of their leader, a hero hired by heroes. These men are the same age as I am but theirs is the age of the native-born, drawn on their handsome faces with a dark pen. Peasants, mechanics, farmers—I would not dare to call them brothers. One winks. Some stare. I pretend to look at the river. How war makes borders glamorous, our time brief and historic! But this is not war, just the face of war; not love, just faces of lovers. Love could launch Mostar’s minarets— love, or war—though language stops us here: dawdling at the river’s edge where history whispers in each soldier’s ear. (First appeared in Agni Review. |
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