I would like to have a place to call my village, but my roots are very far away. I’m a child of exile, and for many years those places were forbidden for me. Now that things had changed, and I don’t have any political problems to return to my country and visit my parent’s towns, where I feel really at home, and I can meet my relatives, I don’t have the money to travel or the means to think about moving there.
When I was young, I wrote a poem, and I explained that for me, my homeland was my parent’s house, where the memories of my forbidden land were kept with so much care. Now they both had passed away, and I suddenly found myself without roots.
It would be easier if I could have the freedom then to fly to wherever I wanted. But chains of duty, lack of means stopped me.
I have no village. My village is the world. I’m feeling a stranger in both lands: the one I love and the other one who adopted me. But I fell trapped, And I can’t wait for the opportunity to get away.
The picture is form the bay of Kotor the where my father comes from