I FEEL SORRY FOR YAUGHAN

I feel sorry for Yaughan
So much offends,
so much humiliations
so much sickness.
All in all,
For a Desdemona;
All in all,
For an Arab from Venice.
I am sorry feel sorry for Yaughan:
All in all,
Because of a handkerchief
From nothing.

An ocean of disdain in your eyes...

When at daily bread they kill the God,
with gods blood they water the foundations of their
temples
In man's eyes the tear feels the treachery
Your freedom feels treachery by itself.

I feel sorry for Yaughan.

THE SOFRA OF HISTORY

In the laid sofra of history
Everyone waits to take spoons

They're looking for slices and want to eat
Stingers, greedy, hookers, jugglers;

But the history offers a quick coffee
And subdued mumbles something

“Sorry, we're waiting to come to the sofra
Those who really make the history”

BJESHKËT E NEMUNA

Bjeshkët e Nemuna spread endlessly before me
Naked and fasted, they bend down, the drop, they elevate,
Like incoming waves that blend into a gray cloud,
I think I hear gunshots by the tunnel.

No. In my conscience it's the rapid of the old maliheri
By the ancient rooftops bullets resound in the distance
A thousand times have I fallen on my back on this
Subjukadet pride
And a thousand times have I risen from dhe dead.

Stone walls
Small windows
Tight bars
My eyes seem to be on fire in this endless view.
Tell me, world, oh, land of mine?

NOR DEARTH NEVER

My ancestors they always sung
But the tower couldn't filled with singing
It couldn't be filled with cries

My ancestors they sang and sang
Their faces like cracked stone tablets
Their eyes like scaterred emers in winter
Put aut after the lightning
But the tower couldn't be filled with life
Nor with dearth never

Something boiled in their hearts
From peak to peak with the flame waving like a flag
In search of something strong
Something that woon't drown in water
Something that won't burn in fire
They wanted a wanted a white cap on their heads

IN THE FATHERLAND

In the fatherland-a tower that lightning cannot touch
I meet my brother with the summer's day on his shoul ders as such
And I don'feel a single bone in my body squeezing me tight
While a teautiful healthy flower spreads in both breasts with light

I the fatherland-I meet my brother with a hot on his head
Like our own Bajram Curri who never knelt before anyone
Then I don't recognize any love, exept the one before my eyes
And I love no other land land, exept the one left to me by my father

TRAVELING FROM THE SELF

The rosy river
Of my song
is terrestrial:
His pulsation is harsh
And its gurgling is clear,
It has sheltered flow
In my veins.
One of his ears is from the heart
The other from streaming,
One of his eyes is from the background
And the other one from bridges,
I enter into its soul
And he travels new
In a song.