In the town of Višegrad,
Where he was born and raised,
From cradle to grave,
He took no respite,
In the disdainful looks
From the villagers and common folk.

It was they who spoke,
In hushed whispers and behind closed doors,
That he was not of their ilk,  
Half of some other blood,
Born from a land of scimitar and silk.

The janissary’s ******* son,
Conceived one night in the shepherd’s pasture,
Was one with dark ram’s hair,
And eyes akin to muddied alabaster.

One who delighted in the towering minarets,
Looming over the stone and brick in the Old City,
He hated the stench of pipes and cigarettes,
And thought Persian crimson quite pretty.

The calls of Qur’anic prayer in midday,
He thought of at morning mass,
Amid the cross, the hymns and prayers to saints,
Staring intently at the stained glass.

He brewed his coffee in kettles brass,
And supped it atop the kapiyah at night,
Dreaming fondly of a likewise dark-eyed lass,
Whose face made him blush at the sight.

He often wished to travel to Eastern lands,
And of these he wrote in poems short,
Those where he could find repose in shaded sands,
And in no Serb or Greek tongue find retort.