(Melissa of New York)
Melissa asked me to imitate Odysseus,
not to listen
sirens of the deep,
nor the poet’s erotic verses
in the rocky waves of the sea.
In New York he studied Pythagoras,
the language of mimicry read the unspoken word
wrote it in saltiness,
where life is a dream
and the dream becomes life.
The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,
the seagulls danced
over our heads,
deep sea conception
shivers run through,
air in New York
I missed the thrill of life.
LATE LETTER
The pigeon made the wrong journey
with the letter written in the color of the sun,
where the moon hung on the white feathers
and the field swayed in the boy’s nap…,
her heart ached in June,
raindrops washed the streets of the smoky village,
the pigeon lands at the wrong address…street number 1986.
The dove, that morning, decorated the song in the bird’s nest,
the rotten mammal was flying
to bring tidings to the chord of Eros,
in Pristina it stops at Ulpiana,
relieves fatigue in the stork’s stork,
the reception smells of the White Crow,
Doris wrote the letter beautifully
in a duel he sought in the Chair
on street number 1986.
The late letter faded into reading…
she sheds tears on the side path,
crow’s feet, seeking separation
in the corner of the heart the melody of hope,
spiders in Doris’s painting
they embroider the bride’s dowry
the late letter wet with tears,
two-way flow switches cards,
to the wrong address –
a life in search traverses, road number 2016.
(The letter left from Peja city in Kosovo,in June 1986, reached Bardh village of Kosovo, in November 2016). The distance between Peja and Bardhi is 45 km!
THRILL
Good evening –
a portrait appears on the screen,
blonde girl with lots of bangs,
special name in this late fall.
Letters get lost on the keyboard,
confusion of emotions in the frozen landscape,
“I’m sorry… – I wanted to say hi,
I have a shiver in me!
“Well, for a few years now, they have made themselves…
“break of sweat on the afflicted forehead,
vision lost in crystal ecstasy…
that, behind the glass a more simplistic world.
He dances his fingers to the chord
of syntactic timbre submerged in pools of tears,
“how close we are, how far we feel”,
this antithesis said in synonymy,
a lot has changed, a lot.
A single path of divine longing,
where I hear the return in late winter,
suspend the sworn oath,
I am looking for architecture
in Rozafa Bridge,
nothing has changed, nothing.
FLOCK CARD
My goodness
Golden hair
in a wedding dress,
it disturbs my life
how you glean the corn
who wear and weave maiden crowns.
There was a mole on the cheek, the weight on the eyebrows
of mortal suffering, in the hands of fate
embroidered in Pelasgian letters,
history cashed in mythology.
The two portraits of your soul,
a woman in infinity
which wreath we laid on the altar of happiness,
the white wedding sheet
you stole from me treacherously!
On our pillow
we share the dreams of the future,
I miss you so much..
THE PERSECUTED MUHAJIR
You sat in the lap of dreams
I caressed her tender lips with caresses
and breasts flourished in my drunkenness,
Song of the Sibyls in poetic verse.
In the oasis of the aroma of tea we lay down,
in the leaves we looked at the unlived life,
we scratched the skin in myzava,
we used to fight in lectures for years.
We poured over the river bed
morality wrapped in dogma,
we spat the time we didn’t know each other
and when we got to know each other, we hugged.
You embroidered the bride in the poet’s muse,
I’m a persecuted muhajiri
I sought refuge in love
our harp was longing.
Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu, Spanish, and Korean.