The Pindos Mountains melt and fade
In morning haze across the lake.
On Ali Pasha’s flowered tomb
There lands a copper butterfly.
The crumbling stones which smell of sun
Are carved with verse from the Qur’an
And warm a lizard’s fretful skin.
It trembles as the air is still.
Before this rock became a Mosque,
Before this town became a town,
The mountains rose and shrank away,
The people came and built their graves.
The shadow of the minaret,
The silence of the fortress walls.