Poezi per Maria ne Itali
Lan QYQALLA
HELLO…
Hello! Hello!
the voice hums like in a cave,
I had forgotten the color of the voice
in this agn of late month.
Hello, hello…
the voice on the other side shuddered
in the raging river,
-Yes I am,..
here.closed in the ego
“gnosi” the lip timbre,
turmoil of times
or late spring?!
Hello, I’m Dorisa,
nothing important
in me the shadow of longing
affects the absorbed nectar
in search of immortality…
I clutch the phone
I feel stuck in water, who revives my fire?
Mekur in late May?!
Hello, Hello…, listen to me!
I am the sin-ridden Danaide,
why don’t you talk to me
why are you silent?
…I can hear you on the other side,
I was disturbed by this phone call in the last month.
AUTUMN LOVE IN PRISTINA
We met in the fall,
in the amphitheater you tweet…
the streets of Pristina,
in the cold night,
shoot me like a mountain fairy.
the stars were aligned
that summer evening in your tear,
we were both lost in the untouched oasis
and the lips stopped at the sounds FlokArtë.
Why did we travel, tell me why
in the cold winter and snow,
the beaming sun gave us a gift,
you ray of sunshine lit me siashra.
Why did we run to the meadows, why
in the early spring fragrance of love
we pray to the flowers of the green field,
embraced we felt exotic intoxication.
THE POET’S MUSE
The poet,
They give the words a meadow color
evoke memories in torn maps
does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies
of the world forgives love!
The poet cooks the word
in the magic of poetry,
in the chain the verses of the verses
stigmatizes renegades
with the measure of memory
in the arboreal fireplace.
Poet, in verse
the storm and the sun in the sun bring,
the figures are planted with love,
under the word
it bakes a world
that you don’t know
fused into crystal…
on the poetic harp you compress it.
The poet dreams
Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,
and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave
in the poetry book
AFTER CENTURIES
After centuries we will get drunk
On the salty altar
we will remember your escape in the spring,
the colors will change,
there will be neither red, nor black, nor green
it will be only blue;
there will be no age, only death
neither school, nor court, nor work,
the whole thing will be like a game…
there will be sea in overtime
life will develop there in the depths,
ships will sail without gas
my dear
The air will be polluted
and the oxygen will be rarefied,
rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon
there won’t be, everything will be the same
in ruins of centuries,
abandoned houses that people are looking for,
fierce wars will be fought
they will cry: bread, air and palaces
with your absence,
that day will come after a few centuries,
where you and I will eat in glass dishes
and we will knit the verses
on the silk fabric,
they will be fed to the spotted birds
and drunk, that day will come very soon,
my love…
these verses will be: proof of a love.
METAMORPHOSIS
(Melissa of New York)
Melissa asked me to imitate Odysseus,
not to listen
sirens of the deep,
nor the poet’s erotic verses
in the rocky waves of the sea.
In New York he studied Pythagoras,
the language of mimicry read the unspoken word
wrote it in saltiness,
where life is a dream
and the dream becomes life.
The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,
the seagulls danced
over our heads,
deep sea conception
shivers run through,
air in New York
I missed the thrill of life.
LATE LETTER
The pigeon made the wrong journey
with the letter written in the color of the sun,
where the moon hung on the white feathers
and the field swayed in the boy’s nap…,
her heart ached in June,
raindrops washed the streets of the smoky village,
the pigeon lands at the wrong address…street number 1986.
The dove, that morning, decorated the song in the bird’s nest,
the rotten mammal was flying
to bring tidings to the chord of Eros,
in Pristina it stops at Ulpiana,
relieves fatigue in the stork’s stork,
the reception smells of the White Crow,
Doris wrote the letter beautifully
in a duel he sought in the Chair
on street number 1986.
The late letter faded into reading…
she sheds tears on the side path,
crow’s feet, seeking separation
in the corner of the heart the melody of hope,
spiders in Doris’s painting
they embroider the bride’s dowry
the late letter wet with tears,
two-way flow switches cards,
to the wrong address –
a life in search traverses, road number 2016.
(The letter left from Peja city in Kosovo,in June 1986, reached Bardh village of Kosovo, in November 2016). The distance between Peja and Bardhi is 45 km!
