Vegime
Mundohem t’i jap mallëngjimit tim trajtën e fytyrës sate, Kujtimit të asaj mbrëmjeje Nëntori, Kur të gjeta prapë, Pasi kisha vite duke të kërkuar. Dhe prapë më ike, Nëpër gishtërinj, Si era që lëkundte zjarrin që kisha ndezur buzë bregdetit në jug-lindje të Tokios, Që më kujtonte një tjetër bregdet, Kur unë e ti ishim bashkë. E një tjetër zjarr. Se kur ishim bashkë, Ndjeja njëkohësisht, Paradoksalisht, Edhe kohën që do të na ndante, Edhe pamundësinë e kohës për të na ndarë, Se nuk imagjinoja dot, Mëngjese që zbardhin pa ne. A vdes për MUA?, më pëshpërit, nëpër gjumë, “Jo”, them, “por vdes për NE”. Paradoksalisht. Por ti mbase nuk e di, Por unë vdes edhe vetëm për Ty. Nuk të shkrova më, Jo se të kisha harruar, Jo! Por se nuk doja që...
Read MoreSWHYB 1.1: Whirling thoughts
I was taken aback when the secretary of the physics department said that a Mr. Yamasaki from Japan has left a message for me. It was a cold December afternoon in T., too cold to let myself slip into the nostalgic palace of molded memories. I had left Japan roughly seventeen years ago and after a couple of years of occasionally forwarded mail and phone calls, mostly over silly unfinished business, the connection between me and Tokyo had, finally, come to a standstill. Thinking about it, I recalled the name of a Mr. Yamasaki, who was given the task of picking me up when I first arrived in Narita airport but besides exchanging some pleasantries on our way towards the city of Funabashi, I had never talked to him again. In my five years of stay in Japan, that is. So,...
Read MoreA touch of blue, under the Stockholm sky
On the terrace of Radisson Collection Strand Hotel, with a view over the astonishing Nybroviken waters, I sit in a folding chair, smoking my usual, Camel, with a fine cup of coffee and Chet Baker playing in the background. I tried hard not to think about Ela, but that was a mistake. Like she had done for years now, she slipped through the cracks on the walls I had built to keep the world outside. This time, the situation was different. E., was dead and, unfortunately, there was nothing metaphorical about it. Two weeks ago, while it had been the most usual day for me, someone had forced his will upon her. I always thought there was something indestructible about her. Her being, hersoul. So much pride into her eyes, like a queen. Like there wasn’t enough force in...
Read MoreHer memories
Pushing a little bike, With a basket on the front, She carries her memories. “I got this bike from my childhood friend”, she says, Without looking at me. “He didn’t want to give it to me for a ride, But I asked his mom, And she told him to lend it to me.” In the cart, she carries a basketball, “I like to have you in my team” I think this is the first time she admitted About an activity she wants to do with me. “Because you’re the only guy who actually passes the ball To a girl, I appreciate that” I think this is the first time I see her with straight hair. Everything is changing, And the patterns don’t serve anymore, I can’t wrap my head around it. How come that I came to Japan, I traveled through half of the world, Running...
Read MoreDied at thirty, buried at sixty
I feel it in my bones, The coldness that the weatherman, Predicted for a week from now! I feel it on my messed-up knee, That I shattered years ago, On a hiking accident. When did I become so weak, so fragile? To feel pains that haven’t happen yet, To let people’s opinions, Become my reality? When did they break!? And, I’m not talking about my knee, Or my bones, I’m talking about my mind, My spirit. What happened to the calcium of my soul? What Sun can give me, The much needed, Vitamin D? I’m in my thirties, But I already carry a lot of dead weight, The trees of my dreams, Have become dead log, They block the view, Of long-lost hopes and dreams, And I can’t keep drinking from broken glass, And smoke past cigarettes. My poetry is bad, ...
Read MoreDon’t waste a prayer on me…
If you have to pray, Pray for the little girls and boys, Pray that they keep their dreams, That they stay young at heart, And walk the path of life, with a gentle touch. If you have to pray, Pray for my old neighbour, Who every night puts on loud Buddhist melodies, In hope of finding salvation. Don’t waste a prayer on me, darling, Don’t. I’m like a dead tree, That doesn’t feel the sour rain falling on it, Or the autumn leaves dancing around. Like Elijah I have to see death, To feel alive, Like dreaming of a post-apocalyptic San Francisco, Or being awakened by a Japanese earthquake, And 20 floor buildings shaking like a kitchen set. It takes a lot of talent to be happy, And I have none. I put my wrist on my ear, To listen to the whispers...
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