My amazement has escaped
From the conscious
Now nothing new happens occurs in this country
Near dreams,
Despite heavy words in content, merciless,
Break the air with the selfishness
Of misunderstanding for the weight they carry.
So, many nights the silence waits there for me
Speaking with heartbits, in darkness songs sound deeper
With a sounding voice between the silence
Giving wings to the spirit to fly in delirium
Winter has no strength to stand, trees will flower again
Still the smell of flowers will fulfil with oxygen
The lungs of nature
Still the rivers will flow again peacefully, unchangeable
But my amazement will amaze me again…
Because in this little country the napping is long
Waking up is fear and happens rarely
More rarely than the eclipse, more often than the longing
Such are illusions and the faddishness!
Poetry is turned in a rit
To keep the breath of my poetic spirit alive
Because I am scared by this little country were nothing happens
I paint the reality between the lines
And hell I cannot avoid it:
In this place where we live more with words, it’s spoken with tears!
Habia ime ka kohë që është arratisur
prej ndërgjegjes;
tashmë asgjë e re nuk ndodh në këtë vend të vogël
buzë ëndrrash,
veç fjalë të rënda në përmbajtje, të pamëshirshme
thyejnë ajrin me egoizmin
e moskuptimit për peshën që mbajnë…
Tash sa netë gjumin ma pret heshtja
ligjëron me rrahje zemra; nëpër errësirë këngët kumbojnë më shumë
një zë tingëllues mes qetësisë
i jep krahë shpirtit të fluturojë në delir…
Dimri s’ka më fuqi të qëndrojë në këmbë, pemët sërish do lulëzojnë
sërish aroma e luleve do i mbushë me oksigjen mushkëritë e natyrës
sërish lumenjtë do rrjedhin paqtë, të patrazuar
por mos habia ime do t’ më habisë sërish…
Se në këtë vend të vogël dremitja është e gjatë
zgjimet janë trembje dhe ndodhin shumë rrallë
më rrallë se eklipset, më shpesh se malli
po aq sa iluzionet dhe marrëzitë!
Poezinë e kam kthyer në një rit
për të mbajtur gjallë shpirtin tim poetik
se mua më tremb ky vend i vogël ku asgjë e re nuk ndodh;
realitetin e pikturoj mes vargjesh
e për dreq nuk e shmang dot:
Në këtë vend ku jetojmë më tepër se me fjalë, flitet me lot!
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