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Woodsmoke hangs in narrowed streets On the shoulders of patchwork buildings It's the palate of a city shaped by bombs on repeat, Presents from a revolving door of friends turned enemy. Enemies only until the West gives permission For soldiers to leave and tourists to stream in Buy cheap cigarettes, gorge on plates piled with food Tiptoe around stereotypes until another war-torn country Becomes chic and land-mine free. This is the white city, the hub of civilizations A changing landscape of peace to UN-imposed walls Men standing on corners with money whose worth Changes hourly - in the morning your wages matter In the afternoon, they're barely enough for a night out. You speak of the wolf at the door, the devil left for Sundays And pray to icons that life will be better That another march on Kosavo won't be on your horizon And that one day you can travel freely and still want to come back.