As I sit here in my full concert attire, propped on a stool with my cello,
I play for my people, sitting in the crater that took twenty-two of them.
The clock strike four on day three. There are nineteen more songs to go,
One for every lost soul of Sarajevo.
Bullets fly by me and bombs drop, but I play my song in these empty streets
For the Bosnian souls taken, for the remains of my friends that lay in heaps.
My life lays in great danger but I will not hide from them, I will live!
I will survive for the lost souls of Sarajevo.
A mortar fell on twenty-two starving bodies, waiting for a small loaf of bread,
All of them scared yet unaware their lives were near their end.
When I gazed upon their remains from my crumbling apartment,
My anguish drove me to project a song of peace. I am not a politician, I am not a soldier,
But time for making music in the capital of hell has never been bolder.
I played twenty-two songs for the twenty-two Bosnians, near ruined homes and fires,
While I spoke to these slaughtered souls of Sarajevo, never doubting my heart's desire.
You ask me am I crazy for playing my cello, but why do you not ask if they are not crazy,
for shelling Sarajevo?
