Friday, February 1, 2019





I say:

In the French Pantheon

Words from

‘The Man Who laughs’ and ‘The Cathedral of Paris’


Translating Victor Hugo’s into his ‘Second Coming’

I say:

Phoenix comes back again

Burning to


Rising from


With renewed youth

Wearing golden, red, purple and blue feathers


Earthly comic and tragic sighs

On its long tendrils of fire

Man’s time of breakthrough is coming

I say:

I call Phoenix

The ‘Spirit Bird’

Bringing with it

Sun energy


Cleansing remedy


Into dewy eyes of humans


Its miraculous ashes on their faces




Wounds of humans



In Sheets of Hope

Such is Phoenix

I say:


Be a phoenix

Resurrect yourself into endless purified forms

Have care, courage and strength

Face the mirror of yourself and reality honestly

Fight the demons dwelling inside you




Both beauty and horror

Both truth and falsity

Both right and wrong

Both moral and immoral

Both good and evil

Then embrace beauty, truth, right, moral and good


I say:

Fly, always fly

Take your souls waves

To shining shores of love

Sharpening your sight

Be indifferent to falling

Source storms of happiness

With lasting brightness and shouting joys

Drowning silence in its bottomless abyss

I say:

The world’s end

Gliding through troubled waters

Shivering in hands of devilish aims

The game and the vision

On the flag of destruction

As infinite as man may undergo

I say:

Othello, the sleep

Desdemona, the awakening

Two questions

Two holes

Two persistent timeless coughs

Two opposite gushing shores walking on mankind’s memory path

I say:


Trees spread their wings

Like birds

Yet hesitate to fly away

Anxious stars sleep anxious sleep

Dew collects flowers

To shape the coming dawn

Then the sun approaches friendly

To lock itself in the newborn day’s song

I say:

Friday taught Robinson Crusoe to ride the horse of solitude

Even though it makes its muscles

As tough as the body of an ancient healthy olive tree

Even though it stretches its neck

As tightly as a pillar forced into the gap of winter winds

Blowing with lusty anger and indifference

Over fading riverbanks that leave no shadows behind

And pouring old desires out of its nostrils

Is all

What the horse of solitude does

When its rider starts playing the game of danger

I say:

Now he lives in psychometric images

Submitted to the prosecutor’s office

Tried at courts

Home arrest – the first punishment

Parole – the second punishment

Or the punishment of the first punishment

Temporary imprisonment – the third punishment

Or the punishment of the second punishment

Life imprisonment – the fourth punishment

Equal to the punishment imposed on the rebelling limbs

The State will soon implement the death penalty

That is, the punishment of all the punishments

I say:

Now he is swimming in ecstasy

Phew! He is also quarrelling with devils

Phew! He is also biting his memories as if they were meat

Phew! He is also convincing himself that his skull has become a crater of a sphinx volcano

Phew! He is also filling with neighs of horses running through streets of narrowed arteries

Phew! He is also watching tightening fingers – heads of slaughtered birds

Phew! He is also anxiously sighing with intestines boiling inside his stomach

Phew! He is also counting perissodactyl traces in the baked dirt of his skin

Phew! Where else can you find this endless endlessness of endlessness?

Where else?

Phew! Phew!

I say:

He has already married to glossolalia

Glossolalia, glossolalia, your only wife

Making love only with you, yet forced out of your being

Closing all the doors to its bed


I say:

Prophet – the first man

What about the last man?

What will be his sacred grade?

Two eyes on the human forehead

Which of them is to enter this world with two entrances?

Which of them is to go out of this world with two entrances?

To measure the world territory

Everyone uses his or her own legs as a compass

I say:

One winter day

They shot the nightingale

That sang

Of the absolute truth


Its beak into post life

The killer hid


A sack full of fear with him



A grave open upon the hill


Evil around his neck

I say:

Tonight the lonely Full Moon obeys not


It crumbles into hot tears

Dancing amidst wild fires

Then the song pierces through the pale orchard

Like before

Just where the Earth’s Beauty is shining now

Faces steal away along the river’s throat

Parching with silence as savage as savageness

Suddenly invited to celebrate at an evil table

Loaded with eggs of serpents wearing colours of poison

In the company of ugly witches

Trying to decode and snatch the beauty from the ‘Earth’s Beauty’

Guarding our sacred Illyrian Lands

I say:

Born from Leonardo’s womb of soul

Mona Lisa

The woman of unmatchable beauty

Seating in an open loggia with dark pillar bases on either side

Her back leaning against a vast landscape

Receding to icy mountains

With winding paths and a distant bridge

Giving only the slightest indications of human presence

The curves of her hair and clothing so sensuous

Echoing in the undulating imaginary valleys and rivers behind her

Her faint smile

Bridging humanity and nature

I say:

O eyeless man!

O earless man!

O closemouthed man!

What part of the body are you calling?

Is the falling tear a plucked eye?

Or is it an exhausted ear?

Or is it a bubble of swollen breath?

What is the ring you are wearing on your finger?

Is it the circle of the flaming tear?

You first wetted your finger with drops of tear juice

Then you put the wetted finger inside your mouth

This juice of the deepest depths contains the salt of seven tastes

Is it to cook the beginning goodness? Who knows?

Is it to cook the ending goodness? Who knows?

I say:

You are standing in front of your self’s well ready

To plunge and drown yourself in it from moment to moment

You will not meet the body’s scarce blood

You will meet the body’s overwhelming waters instead

A buzzing insect comes out of the air’s hole

To land on your tightening lip

Was the whole life that you lived an insect of moment?

Why then should the insect visit your last breath?

Your last breath pushes the insect away from your lip

It is the last push

Enabling the other to live through to the last breath

I say:

Now he ceased to think forever

Leaving behind

A black point and a line moving in the air


Two opposite genital organs


HAMDI MEÇA: Poet, prose writer, essayist, scholar. A multilevel author of academic nature in creativity, Hamdi Meça is appreciated at home and abroad, he is a winner of prizes, medals, honorary titles and diplomas, and he was elected on various international cultural boards. His poems have been translated into several languages and distributed to different parts of the world. He was born on September 6, 1952, in the famous Albanian city of Kruja. He has an MS in Albanian Language and Literature from the University of Shkodra. Besides, he has been qualified and certified in humanities, psychology, linguistics, public administration, and tourism. He worked mainly as a professor of literature (1975-1995). During the period 1995-2008 he served as an administration employee at the Municipality of Kruja. He is currently a freelance writer living in Tirana.

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