AROMA OF MYSELF
She demands an answer
For the great dilemmas as big as insuperable mountains.
Sitting an open window, and looks above
Very high over “Mother Theresa’s Square
Where European and Asians walk together.
Suspension has shaken her
The same as a man shaken by a nightmare
In the dark room, with implanted identity
She looks like a portrait full of
And demands the passionate response
For the daily questions:
Who am I, Me, Is it me?
Or the head’s shade falling over me
Colors, homesickness, love, longevity
And the abyss staying nearby her feet.
The window is closed, her eyes
Europeans move quietly
Through “Mother Theresa” square.
Albanians skeptical in the middle
of white and black.
She enlightens the great wall of dilemmas
And sadly demands, who am I?
She cannot find herself in the century of screams,
Goes through the book of memory,
Just like going through a naked book revealed on a first look.
While escaping from herself
Hidden like the horse in a dense grass,
And meditates: Who doesn’t want to be me?
Beauty is high, between earth and
Me and you.
A brain with mixed thoughts,
Is like the great homesickness with rare truths
Hiding below a dense grass, wetted grass.
Beauty is high, between earth and sky
Me and you.
Where the truth falls,
Just like tall oak trees from the storm
That’s how the path is lost from
darkness and gates are invisible
In the sacred city.
Time prohibits to reveal the true
In the great garden, where all fruits, all flowers, are planted,
Altogether with pain with love.
Yes, the miracle of happiness.
Your glimpse is vigorous,
And your eyes have turned into dry creeks.
The beauty is high, between earth
Oh, how brown is the soil and trees have absorbed the soil’s color.
Except happiness is a tree with juicy fruits
In the garden where a dense grass hides our feet.
IN A TRAIN STATION
Crowds of people
Run towards many directions
Some of them havez luggage
Some embody confusion in their eyes
Some waiting for the train
And a few returning to Ithaca like Odysseus
Every one is found to be in one
Where they depart to different directions.
However they all have the same purpose
The lives’ walk
O God, the unknown lives’ walk.
You are cleaning the front head
and with a sweet voice, asking
Who is the walk?
returning to Ithaca,
Understood that Ithaca was far away from his dreams
Everything had changed, except his memories.
Ithaca did not remember his heroism
She was not Ithaca of Odysseus’ dreams.
Ndue Ukaj, Pristina, Kosova
Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase