If I had only seen a photo of this place, I would have thought I was looking at a photo of Tuscany. The lush green colours, the ancient Roman ruins, cypress trees everywhere. There was this amazing dance of sunlight and shadows… it just blew my mind. And there were storks. Everywhere. It felt like home, in Prlekija.

These elegant birds were everywhere in Morocco. I often thought about the long journey they make every year. The journey of the birds that, in my home country, inevitably bring the spring and new beginnings. I watch them everytime I drive to Prlekija. I watch them making a nest, building a home and a family high up in the sky, far away from the ground. And I see the small heads of their offspring, peaking out of their nest, and their first attempts to fly.

Where do they feel at home, I ask myself. Is it here, in Morocco, or is it back in Europe? Is it here, among these lush green hills and ancient ruins, where everything is so similar to Europe? The ruins seem so familiar. And the spirit of the old, ancient Rome is everywhere.

A thought was following me around. A memory actually. Of the ruins of another ancient city. A city, I visited in my teens. Of a once magnificent city. Of its ruins. And of the tragedy that changed the history forever.

There was this weird calmness in Voulubilis. Even though there were people everywhere. Maybe I finally learned to shut out the surroundings. Or maybe I just didn’t care. The ruins were telling me their story. The story of fragility. Of the civilization that was making history, but was caught up with the inevitability of life and its destiny.

That day, Voulubilis was full of life. The spring flowers were in full bloom. The storks were making nests. Every now and then they flew out. And returned back home. To their nest. And life went on. In its own rythm, on its own terms. When will they fly back, to Europe, I thought to myself. Where will their life take them?

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