They say Albanians are Kurds,
Croats, Greeks — whatever
their restless mouths invent.
They dig in ancient graves
looking for a mirror,
but find only dust
and a shadow that isn’t theirs.
We know our roots.
They run in the soil
of the Zagros,
not in the limestone of the Adriatic
nor the marble of the Aegean.
Let them chase ghosts —
we stand in the mountains,
real as stone,
unmistakable as our name.