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Riza Lahi
Nacionalidad:
Albania
E-mail:
rizalahi@yahoo.com
Biografia

Riza Lahi

Languages – write and speak fluent English / Understand  and read  Russian

I am author of 33 books, published in Albania; some – translations from English into Albanian language .  Have been invited some times abroad Albania as writer and as journalist. I am member of “Albanian League of Writers and Poets” , member of WCP/WAAC (World Poet Society) and “ Albanian – American Academy of Arts and Sciences “

I have published, too,  a lot of times articles in order to protect human rights of Romas\' community and  have been invited in 6th  and   7th   Romas\' World Congress , being not roma, always,  without material repayment .

I am in leading staff of “Obelisk “ – cultural magazine published in Tirana and

deputy president of folk ensemble “The eagles”, Tirana and have participate in a lot of CIOFF s activities.

   I am winner of some honored prices in Albania.Some of my works are published in Greek, Rumania, Kosovo, Slovakia, India, USA, etc .

   In 2012, I am certified with diploma from “International Writers and Artists Association” with that motivation: “This Diploma is to certify that in 2012, RIZA LAHI , who has demonstrated distinguished achievement within the principles and purposes of the International Writers and Artists Association, is recognized as THE BEST TRANSLATER INTO ALBANIAN OF ALBANIA”

SOME OF MY TRANSLATIOS

“Last night I was  whispering  to a star” – from famous Persian Poet J. Rummi ,selected poems 

“The sky flow from my veil’s nook” – from Iranian poet Forugh Forughazd, considered as the best poet of women there from the all poetic Iranian times

 “Selected poems” of Francis Ledwidge, Irish poet, considered as the best lyric of the first world war ( published  completely in press but not as a book)

“The adventures of Mandy Duck “ – children’s work , of Eduard Bosse

Selected poems for children from British, American, Australian and Scottish poets ( in two volumes, publish in Albania and, too, in Kosovo)

“The angel of Mostar” – memories of British author Sally Becker

“ Nobody is angel”     - memories of British author Sally Becker, published in Kosovo

I have publish in Albanian language poems, stories, children ‘s works and a roman . In my works there are three artistic books dedicated to Albanian pilots.

In 2012 I got a diploma fromUSA, from  IWAA , stamped and with signature of  the Presidenet o this World Organisation with this motivation:

   “This Diploma is to certify that in 2012, RIZA LAHI , who has demonstrated distinguished achievement within the principles and purposes of the International Writers and Artists Association, is recognized as THE BEST TRANSLATER INTO ALBANIAN OF ALBANIA”

 

(By English and Spanish)

1 - LAST MOMENTS OF  DEPARTING FATHERLAND

 

 The next!

 

He stopped of at the boat. He

Could ’n act the next step;

Nobody advised him to hurry up

During that silence and

Waves’ plash

 

The next!

 

Got out pebbles from the vest-pocket

Accounted aloud – were five

Throw down by force

And shouted

“Never will see again“ ...!

        With his long thigh

Took a place on the boat’s head.

 

The next!

 

Was moving like a sleepwalker

 Looking nothing

Noiselessly

Like the coffins walks

 

 The next!

 

Was a man...

Started to cry aloud....Has

   a roughly voice, like of teenager almost man

asking for bread to that woman

to whom asked always “... wont bread!“

- his mother.

 

As he collected the brain

seat with his case in the midst of thighs.

  

 Everybody with

 downed heads 

and the shore

      was

           going

                  away

                             awaaaaaaayyyyyyy....

                                                           

                                                    4 November, night...Adriatic sea.

 

ULTIMOS MOMENTOS DEJANDO LA PATRIA

      (LAST MOMENTS OF  DEPARTING FATHERLAND)


 
 
El siguiente!
 
Se detuvo ante la embarcación. él
no podía dar el siguiente paso;
Nadie le aconsejó que se diera prisa
Durante ese silencio y
el chapotearr de las olas \'
 
El siguiente!
 
Sacó guijarros del bolsillo del chaleco
contó en voz alta - cinco
Arrojados por la fuerza
y gritó:
"Nunca los volveré a ver" ...!
         Con su largo paso
Tomó un lugar al frente de la embarcación.
 
El siguiente!
 
Estaba moviéndose como un sonámbulo
  buscando nada
sin hacer ruido
Como un ataúd que camina
 
  El siguiente!
 
Era un hombre ...
Se puso a llorar en voz alta .... Tenía
   apenas  la voz,  de un adolescente casi hombre
pidiendo pan a esa mujer
a la que siempre pedía "... dame pan! "
- Su madre.
 
Al darse cuenta
tomo asiento con su estuche entre sus muslos.
  
  Todo el mundo con
  cabezas bajas
y la costa
       se
            iba
                   alejando
                             lejosssss....

                                                           
                                                              4 de noviembre,  noche ... el mar Adriático.

 

 

Translated in Spanish Patricia Garza Soberanis, México

Member of WPS, The Cove/Rincón International -Delegate in Mexico,  winner of Golden Medal in 31 WCP Congress, 2011, in Kenosha, USA.

 

(By different languages )

 

2 - VETERAN PILOTS *   

 Threw a palm land on opened grave

Where were crying at all.

 

They approached silently to mortal dinner’s table

     Set down

           Afflicted a little

                 Took a sip raki

                     And did

                            Jokes.

 

All their life they had played with death …

                    

I know to everybody:

   The grudges

       The deceits

           The modesty

               The egoism

                  The dirtiness

                   The frenzies

                          The apathy

                               The strength

                                  The weakness

                                      The rushes

                                           The laughs

                                               The tears

 

All they had a lover

To whom

     They

           Told everything

                Gave everything

                       Everywhere only laughed

                               And

                                     Never

                                              Betrayed….

      Was

            That:  

                  The sky

                         Over 

                                  Homeland .

                     

                              Note – written on a death ceremony

*Comment of Poet and Translater Vangjush Ziko, who lives in Korcha ( Albania ) and USA Dressed with  the death\'s black cloak but also with the eternal heavenly blue of the skies, your poem , a conflict,  a contrast and even an antagonism, is the incentive to give itself flying wings. . The descriptive and contrasting background  of the grave and the heavens, the funeral procession itself,  turns the poem into an eternal flight. You have played well and in an artistic way with the fate and the dream. Hence the farewell "party" doesn\'t have the death\'s gloomy shadows. In contrary, it is being transformed into a human challenge. That\'s  because the pilot had always challenged himself and dared both life and death.  That done in the name of a greater love , that of the love of his country as he observed and protected his homeland\'s skies. These skies are eternal and the pilot\'s name remains forever as  one of its bright stars. The poem is a human hymn for the aviator, the dreamer, the daring the martyr of his own heavens.”(The English version of that comment - Merita Bajraktari, poetess, publicist and hero of the author’s roman dedicated to Albanian pilots fate “Serenade from Korcha in New York”. Merita i known in roman as “Mjelma”)

 

老練な操縦士  (VETERAN PILOTS)

ぽっかりといたされた一握土地

そこはばかりだった

かに夕食のテーブルに 

   

座って

           少し考え込んで

                 ラキをすすり

冗談を交わした

 

でたのがらの人生

 

 みんなかっている

    その敵意

        その地獄絵

            その内気

                その自己主義

                   そのいやらしさ

                       そのしさ

                           その冷淡

                                その無力

                                   その

                                       その活力

                                            その

                                                その

                   

 みんな愛人をもっていた

 らが

       何でもせる

            でもえて

                 いだけが

                            そして

                                       決して

                                               裏切ることがなく...

    それは

                  故郷の空のこと

                                          死の儀式で書かれた詩

               死の儀式で書かれた詩   Note – written on a death ceremony

Translated by Japanfrom poetess , member of WPS Kae Morii

 

ΒΕΤΕΡΑΝΟΙ  ΠΙΛΟΤΟΙ  

 Έριξαν μια χούφτα χώμα στον ανοιχτό τάφο

Εκεί που όλοι έκλαιγαν

 

Πλησίασαν αθόρυβα στο τραπέζι με το μνημόσυνο δείπνο

Κάθισαν

      Κάπως λυπημένοι

          Πήραν μια γουλιά ρακί

              Και

                   Αστειεύτηκαν.

 

Σ’ όλη τους τη ζωή έπαιζαν με το θάνατο…

 

Γνωρίζω πολλά για τον καθένα τους:

Τις έριδες

   Τις απάτες

      Την μετριοφροσύνη

         Τον εγωισμό

            Την ατιμία

                Τις εντάσεις

                    Την απάθεια

                         Τη  δύναμη

                            Την αδυναμία

                                  Τις βιασύνες

                                     Τα γέλια

                                           Τα δάκρυα

 

Όλοι αυτοί είχαν έναν εραστή

Σε αυτόν

        Έλεγαν

          Τα πάντα

               Έδιναν τα πάντα

                    Παντού γελαστός

                         Και

                                  Ποτέ

                                       Δεν τους πρόδωσε…

                                          Ήταν

                                                 Αυτός:

Ο Ουρανός

                 Πάνω

                                Απ’ την Πατρίδα.

Translated by the Greece Poetess Vassiliki Ergazaki, member of WPS

 

PILOTOS VETERANOS  

Lançou uma palma na terra na cova aberta

Onde todos estavam chorando.

 

Eles se aproximaram silenciosamente à mesa do jantar mortal

Sentarem-se

Afrigiram-se um pouco

Tomaram um trago de raki*

E contaram

Anedotas.

 

Toda a vida eles brincaram com a morte…

 

Conheço a todos:

     Os rancores

          As decepçòes

               As modestias

                    O egoismo

                        As sugeiras

                            Os arrebatamentos

                                A apatia

                                   A força

                                       A fraqueza

                                            As pressas

                                                 Os risos

                                                      As làgrimas

 

Todos tiveram uma amada

Para quem

          Eles

                   Contaram tudo

                            Deram tudo

                                 Riram em toda parte

                                          E

                                                Nunca

                                                        Trairam…

Foi

         Assim:

                    O cèu

                          Sobre

                                   A patria.

Nota: Escrito numa cerimònia de morte .

*Raki – Bebida alcoòlica de Albania

                            Traduçao po Teresinka Pereira, famous president of IWAA

 

 

 

PILOŢII VECHI  

 

Au aruncat câte-un pumn de pământ

     Alături de mormântul uitat, unde plângeau toţi.

          Au stat tăcuţi la masa mortului

                Au stat în linişte, unii trişti…

                      Alţii au şi plâns

                            Au băut câte-un pic de rachiu

                                 Au glumit.

 

Ei sunt cei ce au râs de moarte toată viaţă.

 

Eu le cunosc tuturor:

  Geloziile

         Satanismele

            Modestiile

                Egoismele

                   Murdăriile

                      Furiile

                         Leneviile

                            Puterile

                               Slăbiciunile

                                  Fugile

                                      Lacrimile

 

Şi toţi aceştia au avut o iubită

    Căreia

I-au spus totul

     I-au dăruit totul

                    I-au împărtăşit bucuriile

                        Şi

        Niciodată…

                                 Nu au trădat-o…

 

  Această iubită

     Fusese

           Cerul

               Peste

                       Patria lor…

 

   

  Notă: poem scris la o ceremonie a morţii

Translated by Romunian ,known poets there,  Viorela Codreanu dhe Baki Ymeri

 

 

 

PILOTOS VETERANOS  

 

Tiró un palmo de tierra sobre la tumba abierta

donde todos estaban llorando.

Ellos se acercaron en silencio a la mesa de la cena mortal

   se sentaron

       un poco afligidos

             tomaron un sorbo de raki *

                  y contaron

                        chistes.

Toda la vida habían jugado con la muerte...

Los conozco a todos en sus:

       Rencores

            engaños
   
                modestias

                     egoísmos

                           suciedades

                                 delirios

                                         apatías

                                                 fuerzas

                                                       debilidades

                                                               corridas

                                                                       risas

                                                                               lágrimas


Todos tuvieron una amada

A quién

      ellos

            le contaban todo,

                   daban todo…

                          En todo, sus risas

                                   y…

                                           nunca

                                                   traicionando....

Era

 
      así:

              El cielo

                    encima

                            de la Patria.

Nota - escrito en una ceremonia de la muerte

 

*raki= Bebida espirituosa de Albania

 

Traducido por Ernesto Kahan, Vicepresidente 1º y Secretario General de la Academia Mundial de Arte y Cultura - Congreso Mundial de Poetas, afiliada a UNESCO; Presidente Honorario de AIELC- Asociación Israelí de Escritores en Lengua Castellana; Presidente ISRAEL IPPNW – Internacional de Médicos para la Prevención de la Guerra Nuclear- IPPNW; Presidente Ejecutivo Colegiado UHE- Unión Hispanoamericana de Escritores

 

Hello my dear Riza.Your poem is great! Here is my translation into Spanish, Ernesto

 

 

 

Риза Лахi (Албания)* Riza Lahi (Albania)

 

ПИЛОТЫ ВЕТЕРАНЫ  ( VETERAN PILOTS)

 

 

Бросим горсть земли в открытую могилу,

Не сдерживая плача,

Потом молча сядем за стол и помянем всех.

Садитесь,

  Устраивайтесь поудобнее,

    Отхлебните глоток раки

      И пошутите.

Всю свою жизнь они играли со смертью...

Я познал всё:

  Злобу,

    Обман,

       Скромность,

          Эгоизм

             Грязь,

               Исступление,

                  Апатию,

                     Силу,

                        Слабость,

                           Спешку,

                              Смех,

                                 Слёзы.

У каждого из них был свой любимый,

  Которому

     Они

        Говорили всё,

          Отдавали всё,

             Всегда только смеялись,

                Никогда не предавая...

Было

  Только

     Небо

        Над

           Родиной.

 

Translated byone of the best poets in our times,

Adolf Shvedchikov, PhD, LittD (RUSSIA)

 

 

*

My dear friend!

Many thanks for your emotional poem VETERAN PILOTS!

Here you\'ll find Russian version of your poem. I send my love to your family and friends!

Have a nice May days!!! I\'ll be in Los Angeles the last month, and from June to October I am in Moscow again.Friendly, Adolf

 

 

That is by hindu ”  VETERAN PILOTS”, by known Indian poet    Dr.Harish Thakur

 

 

 

 

GAZI  PILOTLAR  (VETERAN PILOTS)
 
Açık mezar üzerine bir avuç toprak attı

Herkesin ağladığı yere.

Onlar sessizce ölüm akşam yemeği masasına yaklaştı
         başları eğik           
                  Biraz üzgün
                      Birer yudum rakı içip
                              ve
                                   Şakalar yaptı.
Hayatları boyunca onlar ölümle oynamıştı ...
 Bilirim herkesin:
    Kinleri,
        Aldatmaları,
          Tevazuları,
             Bencilliği,
                  Pislikleri,
                     Hararetleri,
                           Uyuşuklukları,
                               Güçleri,
                                  Zayıflıkları,
                                      Telaşları,
                                          Gülüşleri,
                                              Gözyaşları.
Hepsinin  tek bir aşkı vardı
   Ona
       Herşey anlattıkları,
             Herşey verdikleri,
                  Her yerde sadece gülerlerdi
                        ve
                             asla
                                  ihanet etmezlerdi ..
  
O idi

   Vatan       

üzerindeki    

gökyüzü.



Tercüme eden  Astrit  Yaupi  Hv.Plt.Tuğgeneral ( Emekli)       

 Hava Kuvvetleri Komutanı ( 2000-2008) ARNAVUTLUK

 

 ================= 

                                                                                                                                                

 TIRANA’S   SKY ROCKETS

 

My Tirana

zooms from skyrockets

and has the wound of  a hemorrhage 

of  one million and two hundred thousand of her sons

 

Admire the sky

at  moments  where the years  changes

 

Albaniasends to her sons

 fire – works

much  fire - works…a sky full…out – and - out 

 

All televisions stopped the programs giving especial news

- were born the first children  in maternity  hospital of our capital

they will grow up in few times

they will grew up at once and

only to  flood the sky of Tirana with skyrockets

 

Do not  cease   messages and phone calls.

 

  In five minutes of midnight, of 24th

were one million and two hundred thousand phone calls and messages directed to the sky

to that sky of fire –works

to Tirana

who sends ceaselessly

to the sky’s miss

the fury of her own

young blood.

 

  Ajajajajajajaja

 

Two young stealers theft my red bike

They sell at once

And got skyrockets

 

That fire – works

 they send to the sky laughing with gladness

 

ajajajajajajajajaja

 

 I go to them

And say them  to be not afraid of me

And donate all the moneys have my poor pocket

 But with only condition

Ajajajajajajajajaj

To explode

In presence of my eyes

To explode

High

To the midnight sky of tonight

 

 

I will collect money like a beggar

To buy a new bike

 

How happy

To gaze those very new pickpockets

admiring on the sky

their flowers of skyrockets

that so magic flowers

of my bike

  

 Now

Every

S

E

C

O

N

D

Only a second for more

And the new year comes

And the sky is full

Like then

Once upon a  time

Their sons were here

1.200000 emigrants

 

 Do not stop flowers o’r the Tirana sky...

 

 

I recognise that especial  flowers bursting the sky cup

They are of my red bike

 

And I am so happy

 

 

                                      Tirana, 1th of January, 01.30 o clock

           

 

ティラナのスカイロケット

 ( TIRANA’S   SKY ROCKETS)

 

 私のティラナへ

 スカイロケットがぐんぐん接近し

 1200000人の息子たちの

       血が吹き出た

 

 何年間変化した瞬間

讃えよう

アルバニアは息子たちに

 花火を送る

くの花火、空はいっぱいになって、次々 ...

すべてのテレビは、特報番組めた

-私たちの首都産科病院最初のこどもがまれ たというのに

彼らはすぐに育つだろう

彼らはすぐに育って

スカイロケットとともにティラナの氾濫するだ

むことのないメッセージや電話

24日の数分では

1200000通もの電話とメッセージが発信 され

その花火に

ティラナに

止むことなく

彼女のものだったった

空が失うために

ああ

いバイクをんだ二人泥棒たち

彼らはすぐに売り払って

スカイロケットを買った

その花火 

らはんでいをりこみ

ああ

 らのところへ

私を恐れないでと言い

そして

のポケットの金全部

 だけどその

ああ

そのすために

すために

今日真夜中

しいバイクをうために

乞食のようにおめるだろう

えながら

しいポケットをじっとつめる

という

スカイロケットの 

のバイクの魔法 

 

   

秒針むごとに

あと1秒

新年がやってくる

たされ

そのときのように

かつて

らの息子たちはここにいて

らの

120万移民たち

ティラナの...花

はバイクの

                          くすくすった

 

 

Tirana, 1th of January, 01.30 o clock

 

 

Translated from English to  Japanby Poet Kae Morii,

poet, member of  International Writers and Artists

Associationn (WAAC)WPS, IWA and GHA. Given birth  in Osaka, Japan.

 

=========================                  

 

 

3 - THE ÇINAR* OF TOPHANA**   

 

The çinar of Tophana

silent

frightful

magnificent

girded with a iron’s fence

like a tyrbe ***

- only down

at it’s feet ‘s  node

encircled  from tyrbe’s saintliness.

 

Nobody  knows how old is that man

with opened chest

showing to everybody

  everything

 he has in belly

 

Somebody felt pain to that elder

elder without leaf

half missing

elder

and

thinker

 

somebody has settled around carefully

irrigated

and

his ax fall down from the palms like be a jar

when was thinking to cut

that branch …there…there

on his house ’s roof - tiles

 

Oh, how clement is the heart of people in Shkodra

like the Buna river is

during the terrible heat in summer.

 

Look at guts of that giant

with opened arms over the Topaha’s roofs

 

He don’t want to eat

don’t want to drink ;

he want nothing

but only to show

his manliness

before the death.

                                                                               5th   of May, Shkodra

 

*Çinar –   oriental plane tree ( by lat. Platanus orientalis)

** Tophana a lakefront of my birth town, Shkodra

*** Tyrbe  - mausoleum over a Moslem grave

 

=========================

 

                   4 -        THE JENNET *

 

Written in solidarity of hungry strike in Tirana, at October 2012

 

 

Were singing, dancing, eating choice eating ,

freshening up, splashing each other with Kausar’s** water

down of the sun,

around - chirps more selected flowers of the earth and such

nowhere being seen there.

 

Charming Mirdia*** on the top flight

was hosting and escorting “Shehids” *** (Martyrs)

 

On the gate was written in all world’s languages

 - JENNETT

 

 

Close the gate, by marvelous letters

which might be transform in mother’s language

 by a moment  to everybody

was written :

 

“Herein reside the dead!”

 

On side of that table were

shrouds, coffins, scratched faces

the tears at all

poured for all of those

who were gladdening

or were happy mediating

down of  date –palms, lime – trees and magnolias…

 

   xxx

 

Twilight…

Everywhere silence…

Neither a chirp of birds

nor a dove

to fly around my bewilderment …

 

Who would like to be friend with me, a hen – heart human being?

 

At  a  corn of Tirana

immobilized in a tend

there are some human being going to die.

Their hearts is beating every day slowly …slowly

like a watch going to stop.

Two other of them

 seeking for a speeder death

fired up  the match

on their own clothes and fleshes

 splashed with petrol.

 

Some meters from that corn of Tirana

The Prime Minister of the country

laughs, congratulates and inaugurates very – very  happy

surrounded by flowers and happy faces dancing and

looking at his laughing face

like sun flowers

 

My Lord!

I’m  imploring, give and me a strong heart,

as strong as of our Prime Minister’s heart

to find forces to laugh  when

close me to be human beings insisting to die

right like did in 1968 Jan Palasch

when in his motherland

were walking the iron paws of

URSS tanks. 

 

  I could ‘n laugh like my Prime Minister

I am a hen – heart human being of this twilight

 neither birds, nor my doves  to whom I was fallen in love

 don’t like to approach me and to fondle 

 

Who likes to have friendship with a hen – heart  human being

 as I am

who could not laugh

when near by of him

in a tent

scream human beings

asking to die?

 

Around me speed, fast and gaily music!!!!

 Around Prime Minister

The sun flowers are dancing.

 

Nowhere,

 at least

one scream!

 

Perhaps I have crossed this moment the door of Jennet?

 

 Where I left my shrouds, coffins and my tears?

 

Was perhaps any body weeping of me?

 

  

 * Muslim’sParadise

**Kausar  -riverofParadise

*** Mirdije  - Arabian name, of that prettiest fairy in Jennet, which belongs especially to the martyrs

 

                                         21 midnight -   22  morning of October 2012, Tirana 

 

   

 

 

=================

 

SHKODRA PICTURED WITH BULLETS

 

I have a gunbelt filled with empty cartridges

I have collected them in the streets

I have collected them as hens collect worms

I have nothing to write with

In Shkodra you can not find neither paper

Nor fountain pens nor pencils

Only bread

Bread and Serbian „Zastava“          (a type of Serbian revolver)

Today in Shkodra

With a credit note you can buy just one kilogram of bread.

 

 

„Where are you going?!  Turn back!

The curfew begins at eight o’clock

But you really should turn back, its better to turn back

Why?  Its midday!  Can’t you see?

Everyone is locked inside their homes

Turn back!“

 

„Let me be, please, I’m begging you

Leave me alone, I’m repeating, can you hear my plea?

I have frightening strengths that could break chains

No one in this World could stop me from seeing my Shkodra

Seeing how she looks without her laughter, without her poets, her singers

I’ve come from far away to see my Shkodra

I’ve come to kiss her.“

 

I’m angry and I’m weeping

I’m weeping aloud without shame

I’m weeping for my Shkodra

Where its forbidden to laugh after midday.

 

How astonishing…its so much as if

I’m unconsciously standing in front of this tile from my home

Now I’m holding this tile to my chest on which in reality

I’ve written with one of my cartridges

Which I feel has rotted as my bitten nails carve into

This tile from my home

Which saw me being pampered

Which saw me as I grew into adulthood

Which observed me

Admiring in silence the hairs in my secret body places…

I’m happy…Happy, because I have another cartridge left.

Who are you?  Pleading for me to come inside

Afraid of any stray bullets?

Are you…Are you my mother?

Oh Mother dear, the bullets have nothing to do with me

If I were afraid of the bullets

I should not have come to be in the midst of them from afar

Just to see my Shkodra

And you, my mother.

 

Let me be, Mother,

I’m writing with this empty cartridge on the tile which was placed

On the occasion of your Wedding

Maybe this cartridge killed somebody

And now it is writing

How beautifully it is writing…

On the tile from your wedding

Do you remember Ma?  When you

For the first time crossed over this threshold

And you were dressed only in white

The merry wedding ghost

Put this tile to remember for ever

This special day?  Now

See how wonderfully this empty cartridge is writing and how

My hand is moving like an earthquake.

„Shall I come with you?“

„No Mum…turn back

Go to the kitchen and prepare me some bread and cheese

And don’t forget – a very big onion, and

Afterwards a cup of tea

I’ll not be late, but if

I’m late

Take this key and

Keep it to your chest, You

Should open my suitcase which I brought last night from Tirana, I

Left this suitcase by our book case

Just above your wedding boy where you

Used to keep my poems long ago when

I used to fall asleep as I wrote them and you used

To be afraid that others

Would tease me and my poems

On nights I used to read them, and you

Used to guard them like the panther guards her kittens.

There, Mother I

Have locked inside something white.  I

Have locked inside

My Shroud.“

 

I’ve now finished my second cartridge.

I have strolled around the skies and seas, but if

It is decided that I die today, please

Ask me, it is quite normal to ask a person about to die for

His final request.  I

Would like…Suddenly this cold to turn to Summer, and

To observe my Shkodra full of beachgoers, and me

Swimming on my back in the Banu                             (a river in Shkodra)

Below willows and willows

Below Shkodra’s citadel, full of eagles and seagulls, and

…My G-d

Take my heart, You

My G-d, If

You exist anywhere, come and

Take me but

In Paradise, please

Let me rest somewhere near Shkenderbeg.

 

Oh…So many shootings over the streets of Shkodra

Somebody is killed by a stray bullet, but

A wounded person is shot with 4 bullets

In hospital, on the operating table whilst Doctors are

Sewing his wounds.

Astonishingly this Spring

Neither the Linden flower nor the Magnolia has flowered

Nor the Mimosa this year and nobody has remembered that

Spring is the season of love.

 

Last night

Especially last night there

Have been

Awful gunshots, terrible gunshots…

 

I’m walking like a somnambulist through the streets of Shkodra

Strolling around the empty veins of my birth city

It seems that i pain the criminals

And suddenly, in their hearts, seeing me almost crazy

Clemency awakes, some such delicate feelings of

Clemency can be found in the criminals‘ hearts who

In these moments

Have decided not to shoot me and I

Don’t know why?

 

Oh my brothers – criminals, You are free

To shoot me.  Kill me my brothers, we

Are of the same blood and you

Should be sure in your hearts that nobody will revenge my death

I’m disarmed and I’m giving my honest word that I will not

Give my last breath

Cursing.

Still no one is shooting at me.

 

Tomorrow in Shkodra

A multi national troop force will come

Full of males.

 

This Spring people have only artificial flowers in their homes.

 

Very few flowers have bloomed this April or

At least I haven’t noticed them

In fact I haven’t seen a single flower anywhere.

 

Mother, I can’t bear to see Shkodra

Without people without joking but

Full of gun shots coming from who knows where.

 

Tomorrow

The helmets will pass below the railings full of beautiful girls

Very poor, very hungry.

 

Mother, now I’m late and

Your tea is cold and

Maybe you have taken out my shroud.

Its for me, Mother, this shroud, You

Should go on to live another hundred years

Yes…yes…Another hundred years to show

For your handsome son – your son whose

Last will before his death was to swim on his back down the Buna

Below the citadel, below the weeping willows that stroke like violins.

You should explain to everyone

That this poor poet, your son, has gone to Paradise

And rests in a place somewhere near Skenderbeg

In Eternity

And is thinking, my son

Only for Shkodra

And only enjoying a certain kind of music

The clanging of the sword.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                      

 

 

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