This morning, the footpaths and roads in the Pirin mountains did not lead to long, misty curves looking out over the towns below. There were no tall women walking down Kralja Aleksandra street with their morning coffee. The ducks and the crows were not to be found sharing the water uneasily alongside Vilsono Sedaliste The exotic birdcalls known for centuries to Antivari between the mountains and the sea were not heard. The great dictator's fountains in Piata Unirii were silent and still, and not a light was on in the immense Palace of the People. The old Jesuit church on the Piata Mare was bolted shut, and the medieval murals in the old Hungarian stone church by the Roman ruins were hidden in shadow. The old men did not fill the tables in the park with domino games under the evergreen trees, and talking the subway out from the city centre revealed only long stretches of grey buildings, no grassy parks with the incandescent lobby lights of the small theatres glittering like jewels in the field. The bridges were lined with faceless statues of an indiscernible provenance. The long stone quay stretching from the house of Parliament and the great Basilica to the flashing lights on the stone walls of the theatres was empty and cold. The football ultras graffiti had vanished from the buildings, and the torrential, rushing river that divided the divided city seemed sluggish and still.
And, then, as if in silent agreement with a choice not their own, the great silver crosses towering severally over the many tokens of city and mountain seemed to vanish as one into the greyness of the sky.
This morning, the footpaths and roads in the Pirin mountains did not lead to long, misty curves looking out over the towns below.
Instead, it was morning in the city of the power of darkness, and the silence was general.