The lahutë does not open with coordinates. It opens with a name — Jutbina — and the listeners know the ground: a frontier plain wide enough for thirty banners, close enough to the bjeshkë that milk and boulder still smell of last night’s vigil. Here the household breathes. Father, mother, sister, Halili waiting; Muji returns from the high pasture changed. Herders scatter when strength answers mockery. Later songs will marry, wound, and lament elsewhere, but the plain keeps receiving them — assembly ground, krahina, the country the cycle walks back to when the string needs home soil under its heroes’ feet. No god walks this field as proprietor. The sacral charge is epic geography: a named plain that holds the twin core until the singer chooses another road through the same mountains.