Sardinian Blues, VI
by Zulfikar Ahmetovic
Late night wake up. Call me anxious, call me worried.
Resuming: forced to sign in, Company stuff. Chief R discarding, read her: forcing me in.
No one to trust, no one to be trusted.
Say constant betrayal, constant deception, blackmail when needed. Sometimes enforcement sometimes death.
Money as the bottom line, sure one’s allowed to make Gelt on the side.
Brinks a veteran of the bloodiest dirtiest unofficial wars all over Europe.
All of his friends out of service, not all of the departed ones dead home, nor resting in peace.
Professional sniper Serbian made, guns in my own hideout, no way to exclude my own DNA on them.
My only real friend, my Italian good friend E. the owner of this house I’m in here, then all of a sudden his unveiled ties with some unofficial-official bad guy with known ties with GRU, the worst foes for US.
Late night silence, me smoking out of the window, no passers by at 3 a.m.
Sometimes I wonder who am I.
I’m a talented young Bosnian picked up by an US Institution for my own gifted mind.
I’m a mixed blood gipsy from Višegrad, Republika Sprska. Born in a Karawan. Grown up with my gipsy grandparents.
I’m tall I’m strong I’m dark.
I speak many languages as if my mother language.
I’m a brilliant chess player.
I’m eagerly waiting to fulfill my green card schedule, to start my new all American life.
Forgetful of my late real father.
A life I might call mine forever.
I’m a scholar, which seems contradictory to my looks.
Please never forget I’m a scholar.
Mention it on my graveyard in case I should die before your very distinguished reader’s eyes.
Get some sleep, young Zulfikar, don’t let vampires stake your mind.
