Albania, is that its name?

You dazed me with your landscapes, hidden
in plain August light,
  with your history between my bare feet,
  stained with your mild surge, stepping battlements,
  and forts, and walls; coexistence between that past
  barely spoken, and this present
  eager to vend.

 You welcomed me with your impatience,
  and your survival, among grape
  alcohols and endless plates, your end will never
  arrive, your hills will not allow it
  to pass, through your lost villages
  of coffee offerings in your opened doors,
  and solitary shepherds.


 You imagined me for months, in the shores
 of your dry, summer rivers, paddling ottoman plazas,
 passing curtains around your colors,
 forever meeting
 this country,
 which no-one can
 discover.