(for George Vulturescu, Romanian poet)

Remember that day
In post-war Belgrade,
September, oven-warm,
African air?

We read in the square,
As busy as a market,
Placed before a microphone,
The Serbian Writers’ banner

Hung behind us, as people
Gathered, clustered around us,
Their generous applause
Stuttering in the heat.

They came from other streets,
Out of shops and restaurants,
Coaxed by our amplified voices,
Maybe hoping for something.


They did not expect
Loaves and fishes, or even prayers,
Only our free ration
Of sad, broken songs.

Peter Thabit Jones © 2016

Published in WHISPERS OF THE SOUL (bilingual: English/Romanian), 2008