His shoulders curled under the weight of worries and internal wars,

he was sitting under the tree,

taking a break,

smoking a cigarette and drinking kahva.

 

Judging the appearance, you would never guess how spritely and youthful he once was.

 

His old blue jeans splattered with white paint 

and his yellow sweater dotted with moth holes, 

the dark circles that pulled his dark brown eyes down, 

his hair was disheveled, and his hands were rough like sandpaper. 

 

Indeed, it all made him look older than he was.

 

The world was not kind to him,

but despite the rough appearance, 

to me, he always looked like love. 

 

His name was Bosna, 

my father and my mother, 

my first home.