Jajce

Set upon a hill, I look across with awestruck eyes at a town that could fit the description in so many novels. I wonder whether I could describe it differently or even capture it with words at all. A river and time carved out a soft enough valley for people to stack red roofed white houses on top one another until ascending slope brought the climb to a standstill. 600 years of fortress ruins split the town into two unequal sections; the ramparts stretch brokenly to the meeting of two rivers which together spill unadulterated onto rocks far below. There's a patch of vivid green flatness on the other side spotted with haystacks. A football field turned to mud lays like an unseemly birthmark and carries the voices of young men. In addition to the neat houses, blocks of apartments--multi-storied and complete with washlines and echoes of children--are also cupped by the mountains. Both have wood piles, stacked just so; both show the bullet holes of the war that passed through in my lifetime. Passed though, but didn't pass, as bombed out buildings with their windows boarded shut and graveyards overfilled with dates of the early '90s remind me. I sit above the one for Muslims now, next to new heaps of earth. The stark white headstones are not as even as those in Arlington, but the memorials point upward as a final reminder of peace.