Violeta Allmuça (Albania)

Violeta Allmuça (Albania)
 
Violeta Allmuça was born in 1965 in Bulqiza, Dibër. She graduated in Albanian language – Literature in Tirana. The passion for literature has been to her as a human face that appeared at early age, as one sign that would give a complete form to her life. The author is poetess, prose, essayist, publicist, literary scholar and human rights activist. Her prose is related to the realstories of today’s universal society. The spiritual world of characters leads her to essays works. An author of 4 novels, 3 books of poetry and one book of journalism. Her poems are published in varied languages such as in Italian, Croatian, English, Spanish etc. The author’s hobby is reading and classical music.
 
 
LIFE’S JOY
 
We in our lives always remember the past
As a circle coming around since the day we were born
Birds are singing without recognizing freedom
Their wings in the sky are the joy of life.
 
We are living the present longingly
Right were our purple memory is born
And the fire sparks are breaking the winter’s darkness
Over the snow where the stars drink a red wine.
 
We are still at the center of the future
Time is pouring over our shoulders and is rising up
Years are passing by and nothing is lost
Even though we remained free crusaders on a storm.
 
I love my dreams that encompass myself and depart in the morning
When the sun flower is opening up its head and sitting next to the table
With a warm bread from the oven and a white milk
In this world we are the architecture of life…
 
 
BLESS THE WORD
 
The word was born on a heart just like an epical stone
Here and there traces are appearing
The scars are through a body path
This is why my word is kept under my skin.
 
The day is relying on the wings of freedom
Midnight is shining and dressed by thunderstorms
The Post Master is loading words on a handbag
Unloads them every morning on the world’s doors
 
Men, between life and death bless the word
The word is crowned on a fire and connects two shores
We are birds of memory under a grey dome
And have become screaming pilgrims of darkness.
 
When the dawn is depending on the children’s eyes
their veins connect the words with the sky
Rain is falling, the words are wet on a window glass
The horns of thunderstorms are shaking the skie’s clowds.
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