In a neighborhood called Podujevo three looters were stripped to the waist, loading refrigerators and washing machines onto a tractor-pulled cart. Around them, empty streets sloped down to a rich plain where barley and wheat ripened, unharvested, under the sun. The sky was lush with the sort of buttery, towering clouds that light Old Masters’ paintings. The city was silent. The looters worked languidly, pacing themselves as field hands do. It was peaceful. There was absolutely no hurry. Europe never changes.
The horses of Kosovo -- Kosovo
Salipur is dead. Everyone says so -- Kosovo