I was not older than 15 years old
I did not go to discos, and I rarely spend time with my friends
On Korça cobblestones, I was leaving the little girl
Questions, serenades, and our neighborhood gypsy parties

Ramadan, the gypsy, began giving more dinners and playing more music at home
First to please himself..., and then, to entertain his sister, his brother
And, of course, his father

Ramadan was going mad with bliss
He had his hair styled with radiant gel, he changed his mustache style
He had another tooth plated with gold in his mouth
But his voice would trail off each time he sang
"Will the blonde again join the party!
The beautiful blonde of nobility!

My Mom sewed a flouncing dress for me
Though I bought a very dark face toner
I failed to change the color of my rather white skin
Yet I sewed my soul to suit the inside of the brown-skinned

The gypsies and Korça's fussy stones rejoiced
I just followed their curiosity and joys
I followed the surprises and questions arising from my own age
Since then I remember
My desire to teach myself
Everything new my friends knew not
The opposite of the ordinary

It was like in a horse race
With people betting more and more
On who would win the war of seating next to the blonde
On who would win the war of touching her big breasts
As if unintentionally

Then I fled
Taking the joys and Korça's apple fragrance with me
But the song about the blonde went down to history... today the gypsies still sing it in their yards
Echoing with clarinet sounds

I lived a beautiful woman's life
Taking too much pride in my white skin
But I have not yet experienced the bliss equal to that coming from gypsies
Be it in a dream

Even in rooms boiling with music
And luxuries... and fun
I have not yet encountered the peace of mind
I did in those rooms void of walls, but filled with gypsies!