Poems by Kolec Traboini
I Wish I Could Die Many Times
“The White Death”, as they call it,
Obsessed my brain in my dreams
and your image was so familiar to me,
As if I die, more than once,
I would be a very happy man.
But, if all the other deaths
Would be the same as the first one was,
Filled with that moment of kisses, when I met you,
Please, let me die even one thousand other times.
Who the hell, is asking for expenses!
It is important that I am a happy man…
This is such, because the first ‘death on your hands’
With the lip’s smell, was of that spring spreads,
While the wind fetches the flowers’ pollen to any excitement,
and I dazzled say, “Please, let the death take me away”.
Who the hell, is asking for sufferings!
I like her killing me with her kisses,
with her sex on my passion.
Only then, when the fecundation is finished,
I want to be out of reach, until I will be reborn again,
Wishing, you my darling to ‘eradicate’ me over and over,
Having my breath that of your breath,
and by making me a better man,
I accept the time ready for my pray.
Who the hell, is asking for opinions!
I am really a happy man…
Written by Kolec Traboini on 11/08/16
© traboini 2016
My Kids And Birds
Every hard winter and Every war
Every single day in my life
I ask myself In my backyard:
– My kids and my birds, where are?
Written by Kolec Traboini on 11/10/15
© traboini 2015
A red bird named Cardinal
sings for Love with yellow hair,
that appear in window in New England
where Natali’s hands are burned
Written by Kolec Traboini on 05/10/14
Winter In Boston
Mythical sun hidden behind clouds
houses and trees slipping away,
Raven legend of Allan Poe
sadly sings in a verse.
The pale moon goddess
with frozen neck hangs beyond,
season follows season like foot-dragging
like forgotten clouds in heaven.
Nervous trains with frozen people
hungry bite gray backgrounds,
cars on Longfellow Bridge
like Anaconda through the rain.
Boston has no seasons – winter
only little summer that stealthily sails,
coasts with lots of ocean waves
that never melts ice in its bay.
Swallows are afraid to come here
because the word spring is never used,
in dreams appears the warm Mediterranean
with soaring pigeons in the air.
Beyond the window, dream of little sunshine
little blue heaven to flow in my window,
frozen wires of voltage to transform like
fields and lines in pentagram.
Winds to blow from the Ecuador
the key musical Sol of Boston to melt,
crazily birds to perform
Vivaldi’s music in four seasons.
Boston 26 March 2002
from the book “Don’t Let Love Die!” 2002, Tirane- Boston
Written by Kolec Traboini on 08/09/14