Bosnian Nights

A hot breeze slices the night.
Sharp staccato music plays loudly in the background.
A bitter red wine pours from the cup,
Spilling thickly onto the floor.
Words of love shrieked above the chaos.
The cup clatters to the ground, shattering.
Dischordant and pandemonious.
The screaming grows more urgent,
The cup is almost empty,
The wine begins to evaporate.
The building dissolves beneath them,
Above them, around them.
Sarajevo falls,
And the Great Feast is over.

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