Poems by Adem Zaplluzha
Translator : Dritan Kardhashi
WHAT ARE THESE EARTHQUAKES?…
Your steps do not leave any prints,
they cleared all my memories,
An old coffin at the graveyards,
discusses with the pantonime.
Nothing left to be touched,
the blood’s jellies are raising,
A yellow morbid shadow,
like Edgar’s raven is knocking
on the memory.
Last night you did not open the gates,
but you even did not close them,
The waxy lock was crying
along with the wind,
a monotonous barking was heard
beyond the walls…
Again the raven’s voice like the night’s voice,
resounds in my mind,
The windows are not opened,
long since the thoughts are locked.
Slowly and with fear I touch my limbs,
frost seems to have entered in my soul,
What are these earthquakes
which are shaking off the top of my hair?…
WHEN WE TOUCHED THE FROSTY FINGES OF THE WOOD
On the moisture of green,
the careworn evening spread,
Two hands of fog, at midnight combed,
The ragged hair of the birch.
The south, like the grieving wood,
collects the last leaves of autumn,
Through the memory of the green,
the mad waves of the stream,
Run long since…
Last night was very late when we touched
the frosty fingers of the wood,
The tree even that way
had remained fruitless,
from the big highland
The licentious Denik is blowing.
I open the closed windows,
the houses of the villages seem to me,
like the white sheep,
Between the curved branches
of birch trees,
In the experimental garden
the morning wakes up.
IT SEEMS TO ME THAT THE BIRDS ARE LEAVING
Today, I won’t utter a single word,
let the wind devour them,
The shrivelled hands of the season,
the leaves, have just lost their path…
Where will it plant these dried branches,
in this stone quarry,
Even the weeds do not grow…
The wind blubbered
on the naked slaps of fatherland
It seems to me that the birds are leaving,
the ruined roofs have remained in solitude,
Only the crippled Moon
tonight mounrs the flights of the birds…
The white butterflies are also leaving,
the wind closed all the paths,
The birds of which season,
have remaines as watchmen of sorrow!
Again in the womb of the soil,
a white shadow is cooking the bread of hope,
The hungry children in silence,
chew the strong bone of poverty…
THE BELLS OF POVERTY DO NOT STOP
Every hour and moment,
I feel on my skin the atmospheric changes…
At times it rains peevishly,
and at times the smoky air maddens
From the unbearable heat.
Down the boulevards of the town,
all the dolls from the shopwindows,
Have began the hunger strike,
The White river,
tears the faces of the woody bridges.
Under the galls of the pebbles,
the bells of poverty do not stop.
The hungry wood jealously
watches the Game of leaves.
By sinking into the spirit of enigmas.
Strangely, no barking was heard last night,
the trapdoors in the neighborhood
of the watch makers,
Were discussing in silence
with the yellowed shadows,
only the miaows of the sick cats,
Probably were hurting the spirits of the roofs.
ON THE SUNKEN EYE OF THE CAPE
Last night, a ship crushed
in the quay of forgetfulness,
It threw the anchor of expectation,
In the depth of the anaemic sea were heard
only the laments of the shells.
The soldiers did not return
from the sunken steamboat,
Hundreds pairs of shoes and blue envelopes,
swam on the melancholies of the waves,
From the cape of sorrow were heard the wails
of the white mermaids.
The grieving sea was crying,
like the bride in the wedding
chamber the wind screaked,
On the sunken eye of the cape,
The afflicted tears of the fairies.
WHOSE VOICE IS HEARD TONIGHT?…
Tonight I am not alone,
with my shadow I am doing down to the river,
I touch the sleepy woods;
I touch the nests of the blind birds.
Not a single voice is flying in the space,
even the birds of the night have left,
Who cried last night,
that the dried wood resembled the cuckoo.
No one is answering;
perhaps the words are dead,
From the dun depths of the earth,
are heard only the calamities of the roots
Like a bird, the wounded leave is writhing…
Whose voice is heard tonight,
when for the first time I am not alone?
HOW MUCH NAKED IS THIS LOVE!
Even that way, naked, as you were,
you loved your fatherland,
You were conceived with its stony sorrow,
And one day you were transformed
into a monument…
The fresh air of the morning kissed you,
the evening covers you with the pride
Of pagan forefathers,
So much love you had in your soul,
that you were transformed
into a fleshy monument.
Take my coat, in this frosty heat of summer,
Take it, please, cover the wounds of fatherland…
So much naked is this pride,
that it resembles the concave mirrors…
NO PEOPLE PASS THROUGH THE SIDEWALKS
Bewildered, in the middle of the square,
stands the unfinished monument…
From the marble eyes of the day
drip the frozen tears,
A mother wipes the perspiration
of the boulevard.
Long since there
has not been raining in my town,
the Sun, like a ghost,
no where shadows,
no people pass through the sidewalks,
Only the woody dolls blubber
O God, what is happening
at the planted trees?
The memories of the woods are getting dried …
This backlash is burying the roots,
The stretched eyes and hands
of the beggars blind the minds newly born lilies.
Long since the rain does not pass hither,
in mourning silence stands the choir of frogs,
Nor the buzzing of the bees is heard,
Through the empty honeycombs
for many years the mad rats are playing.
THE WOUNDED DAY DRIPPED
He was leaning on the plane tree,
whereas the ancient plane on the shadow,
Which kept on the shoulders
the torn shirt of childhood ..
Like the beast in the state of readiness,
the wind stood…
At times it opened the wings jealously
and watched the reddened sunset.
A small finch had remained on the snow,
form the beak of which, like balm,
Dripped the wounded day…
that day we did not understand
how the birds were killed.
In the garden the trees were burned,
the mingled branches were apain…
Who mursered our dreams last night?
On the phone wires the birds were
LIKE A SAD WEIGHT IT STIFFENED
I see some kinds of underwear,
Thrown into the cantonment,
with their hair cut and nails pulled,
The containers seem to be filled…
The whiff of the rotten flesh,
like a sad weight deteriorates,
On the wounded senses,
whereas in the horses’ track s,
The torn hands and legs stink.
These dreadful scenes can be seen only
in the fields of blackbirds,
Birds that cannot fly
and varicolored butterflies
With burned head
and plunged into the mud…
Nights here have another name,
they resemble with those nights of knives,
Whereas at the narrow alleys the children hide,
Who do not dare even to cry.
THEY EMERGED LIKE FROM THE ANCIENT BALLADS
A whirlpool had mounted the waves,
The wild sea tossed
through cans of conserves,
The barren shores of the fatherland
watched the space,
Watched surprised there
where it melted like the salt in water.
It was a late night, very late to fall asleep,
But very early to stay awake.
The thoughts also resembled
the unbridled waves,
Over the bow, the sea horse blubbered .
The sea horses cannot be tied
in the memory of a story,
The ballads sleep through the enigmas,
all the kinds of songs sleep.
Only that song on the wings echoed
somewhere in the distance,
The billows sing,
like the sea caressed in the shell.
like the ill-fated man,
a lonely ship blubbered,
with the wounded swans…
From the yellowed leaves
of the colonnades emerged,
like from the ancient ballads,
The knights of thunderbolts
and they rode the stars through the space.