From time to time the wind brings shreds of tattered newspaper thrown away by travelers. From these I learn what is going on all around. The surprising names of viziers and countries: NATO. R. Cook. Madeleine Albright. The slaughter of children in Drenicë. Milosevic. Mein Kampf. Again the name of the woman vizier. At times, my name, too, appears amongst theirs: . Murad I.
Allah, I have been so tired for over six hundred years now, a Muslim monarch all alone in the middle of the vast Christian expanses. During my worst hours I am seized by the suspicion that maybe my blood is the origin of all this horror. I know this is a crazed suspicion, and yet, in this nonexistence in which I am, I beg you: Finally grant me oblivion, my Lord! Make them remove my blood from these cold plains. And not just the leaden vessel, but make them dig up the earth around where my tent stood, where drops of my blood spattered the ground. O Lord, hear my prayer! Take away all the mud around here, for even a few drops of blood are enough to hold all the memory of the world.
Ismail Kadare, Elegy for Kosovo
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