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POEMS by Lan Qyqalla

Updated: Apr 28

VALENTINE'S DAY


Lora

embroidered Valentine’s Day

on the map of love

Egnatia-Naisus street

and in passing I also took

the honey flavor

from the hot ashes

of the estinguished fire.

 

Lora

like a blonde ladybug in the meteorite

nobody whispers

on the map of love

and the star twister out of exhausted longing

in the timeless feeling

brought the freshness of age

the kiss of the mountain like Hera from Olympus

departed in the endless today

night.

 

Lora

frozen in heat

slightly heated to the bosom of love

"I'm very cold

Lan takes me with him

tonight

I do not want flowers

a white rose

to have for Valentine’s Day! "

 

HELLO

Hello! Hello!

the voice hums like in a cave,

I had forgotten the color of the voice

in this agn of late month.

Hello, hello...

the voice on the other side shuddered

in the raging river,

-Yes I am,..

here.closed in the ego

"gnosi" the lip timbre,

turmoil of times

or late spring?!

Hello, I'm Dorisa,

nothing important

in me the shadow of longing

affects the absorbed nectar

in search of immortality...

I clutch the phone

I feel stuck in water, who revives my fire?

Mekur in late May?!

Hello, Hello..., listen to me!

I am the sin-ridden Danaide,

why don't you talk to me

why are you silent?

...I can hear you on the other side,

 I was disturbed by this phone call in the last month.

 

RAIN IN MY EYES

The rainbow appeared

behind the lines of rain,

the worries and troubles of stis,

carved verses

where the west burned,

in the braided flower,

we put a wreath.

 

You can't see the rainbow

it didn't rain a little,

in my eyes...!


 

AUTUMN LOVE IN PRISTINA

We met in the fall,

in the amphitheater you tweet...

the streets of Pristina,

in the cold night,

shoot me like a mountain fairy.

the stars were aligned

that summer evening in your tear,

we were both lost in the untouched oasis

and the lips stopped at the sounds FlokArtë.

Why did we travel, tell me why

in the cold winter and snow,

the beaming sun gave us a gift,

you ray of sunshine lit me siashra.

Why did we run to the meadows, why

in the early spring fragrance of love

we pray to the flowers of the green field,

embraced we felt exotic intoxication.

 

THE POET'S MUSE

The poet,

They give the words a meadow color

evoke memories in torn maps

does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies

of the world forgives love!

The poet cooks the word

in the magic of poetry,

in the chain the verses of the verses

stigmatizes renegades

with the measure of memory

in the arboreal fireplace.

 

Poet, in verse

the storm and the sun in the sun bring,

the figures are planted with love,

under the word

it bakes a world

that you don't know

fused into crystal…

on the poetic harp you compress it.

 

The poet dreams

Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,

and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave

in the poetry book

 

AFTER CENTURIES

After centuries we will get drunk

On the salty altar

we will remember your escape in the spring,

the colors will change,

there will be neither red, nor black, nor green

it will be only blue;

there will be no age, only death

 neither school, nor court, nor work,

the whole thing will be like a game...

there will be sea in overtime

life will develop there in the depths,

ships will sail without gas

my dear

 

The air will be polluted

and the oxygen will be rarefied,

rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon

there won't be, everything will be the same

in ruins of centuries,

abandoned houses that people are looking for,

fierce wars will be fought

they will cry: bread, air and palaces

with your absence,

that day will come after a few centuries,

where you and I will eat in glass dishes

and we will knit the verses

on the silk fabric,

they will be fed to the spotted birds

and drunk, that day will come very soon,

my love...

these verses will be: proof of a love.

 

METAMORPHOSIS

(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.

 

EURIDIQUE COME BACK ONE DAY!

(dedication to my late wife)

 

Eurydice, come back one day,

that my song for you does not stop

prayer to Hades touches ancient crystals,

my muse invades Diana's verse,

I will not turn my head back

that I am not Orfe.

Eurydice, take the fairies' journey,

come to visit and don't stop there to see

the children have grown up. Teuta walks

your traces in Grammar,

Fly like birds in flight,

Lali stays calm like a meteor pillar,

cold winter has fallen on me

I have snow everywhere on my head.

Eurydice, I wrote you a letter,

in which paradise do you rest,

sorry i didn't have an address

and started the journey without a visa,

no passport, no goodbye

and how do we wish this year?!



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, Spanish, etc. He has got published many poetry books to his credit.

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