I’m from the Balkans,
where the mountains remember
more than the people dare to say.
I am Slavic,
so is my father —
our blood carries echoes
of languages, of wars,
of songs sung in the dark.
Yet I was born in Germany,
between factories and streets,
where history feels borrowed,
never mine,
but never foreign either.
And still,
when the noise of the world fades,
one refrain lifts from my chest,
half-pain, half-pride:
Helicopter, Helicopter…