BABA, NE IKËM
(shkruar kur nga fshati iku dhe i fundit…)
Baba, ne ikëm,… shtëpinë e braktisëm,
një kohë arixhinjsh jeton gjithë bota
dhe foton tënde nga muret e zbritëm,
si kyç një palë lot vendosëm tek porta…
Ikëm, or ikëm, vendlindjen e vramë,
në metropole u mblodhëm si punë e iriqëve,
(e ke parasysh kur e vjelin një pemë
dhe mblidhet e ngjishet si në vargjet e fiqve?!…)
Ne ikëm dhe varrin ta futëm në një video,
të dielën të takojmë në xhamin vizual,
me mend i vëmë lulet, dy lot, një cigare,
jetojmë me simbole… botë me manual.
Në fshat nuk shkojmë, e kemi me vete,
tani gjithçka e mbajmë në kuti,
kjo kutia baba e ka emrin kompjuter,
në xhamin e tij takon çdo njeri..
Në xhamin e tij gjen nuse, bën dasmë,
puth djemtë e vëllait në tjetër kontinent
dhe nënën e qan nga mijëra kilometra
tek e fusin në varr, me video – konferencë.
Ne bashkë do bëhemi kur të vijmë aty poshtë,
këtu lart u ndamë për jetë e për mot,
s’të shkruaj më shumë, se ti e di mirë,
qëllova i dobët dhe mbytem në lot.
Nuk dimë ku shkojmë, s’ka kohë të mendohesh,
nxitojmë nga që thjesht është në modë nxitimi,
një kohë arixhinjsh jeton sot tërë bota,
ah, ik edhe thur kanistra pikëllimi…
Shkruar nga Petrit RUKA
Another Letter to my Father
Your name was Nowruz and you’re born on vernal equinox. On the first day of spring, and March 22nd is back again. In perfect balance between night and day, on your “Special Day” we just live together, but on your “Special Night” I’m living by myself. It’s an extreme longing that “eats” at my heart and I believe it does me well, because it would break the ribs that it’s been enlarged yearly. Likely, Prometheus saved himself, where each day a black eagle of Scythians was sent to eat his liver. The power of myth is true and correct.
Every time your birthday is coming up, I remember the poems I’ve written about you. A lot come to my mind (maybe, I look up most likely) as the savior of mankind. I’m not quite sure about that. I remember writing the first poetry at my teenage years, somewhere else in high school. I was in a hurry and could not catch my breath, because I wanted to tell you it published in a literary journal “Nëntori”(The November), but you kept asking me: Where it is? I turned over the pages and showed you my good poem, but you didn’t read it. You swallowed hard and still didn’t speak; you didn’t even ask me to read it all away. You could just stretch out your stonemason’s hand and put your big palm on the written page. I noticed your hand trembled, taking seconds to come to a stop. That was it! Since then, I’ve always used wrack my brain, understanding what it meant to be, I still can’t explain when it comes to this mystery.
What was that?
I’m going to die one day without an answer –without even an echo upon myself.
Maybe it’s better this way, -My Majesty!
And here, I’ve become so accustomed from time to time to bring a new poetry, – the one of “yours”!
Since you passed away, my poem published and republished again and again in a literary journal or literary magazine, newspapers and website online. Good-hearted people have made so many comments to that beautiful poem. I wish you were here to read the comments, and I believe, you will not do it again!
You’d be again stretching out your stonemason’s hand on those written pages and saying nothing at all. From beginning to the end, I’ll make myself a question: “What was that?”
We Left, Father!
(Written just after the last one left the village)
Father, we left…abandoned the house,
A time of gypsies, the whole world live in
Even we took your picture off the walls,
And shut the gate with a string of tears!
We left off! Ah, we left off! Razed the homeland,
And we gathered around the metropolis,
As if the hedgehogs are chased!
(Bear in mind, when picking out the trees,
That shrivels and twists into string figs?)
Even more worries, ramping up our effort,
Lost our leaves, no song and sleepless nights,
In fact, everything shines in the luxury stores,
The psychological scene that tames the heart!
We left and thus recorded your gravestone,
On Sundays we talk on the glass visual,
In mind, like putting flowers, shed a tear,
At your graveside, smoking a cigar,
We live in symbols…. by the world manual.
We don’t go to our village anymore,
Saved in the box, it’s in us everywhere,
This box, Father, which we call “laptop”
On its glass screen, we greet everyone!
On its glass, we find bride and get wedded,
Kiss your brother’ sons, on the other mainland,
Crying over late mother, a thousands miles,
As low in the grave, during a videoconference!
We’ll get together, when we come down there,
Here we separated forever and always,
Even I can’t write anymore, you know better,
That I feel weak and shedding my tears!
Go without knowing, there’s no time to think,
But we’re in a hurry, just because old fashion,
A time of gypsies, the whole world live in
Ah, leave and weave the basket of burden
Written by Petrit RUKA
Translated by Raimonda MOISIU