Monday, July 1, 2019




You finished the whole color of the world
Pencil drops black
Black and even black
Yellow flowers red flowers
White flowers
And blue sky

The words are screaming
From mysanthrops’ vase
To fall out from a bottle of writing
Poison with stomach and lungs
I am, growing
Under an oaks shade
And cut my hand so I would loose
And to respond
A word of response

Perhaps you may be tired
Possibly you cannot see
How the pretty
Are setting bed
Over my body
A river with a sky of blue
Where the clock’s arrow would not stop

View it in depth
As a value of inheritance
Place rotten wood
And returns the face
To the north with freezing winter

Oh Nothingness, nothingness
Fumes with stress without stop
And spits
Near the window without a house


Just like the eyes of a child with sea color
The color of writing
A deep pond
How cold is the depth
There with a stone the tiger’s teeth
Diamond and topaz
And the color darkened, darkened
And comes a white blood
Of clinical death

Just like the kid’s eyes with longing color
The color of writing exhausts whiteness
With the beautiful view of birth
Cuts with a black line
The small piece of happiness

Send me a letter  -  Violet
A color of the sky
Lastly drawing the words
The river where they drink
The herded animals
And wild people

O God! Where did you find,
That plumes which in place of sweet color
Drops poison and tears


I am leaving all my wealth
In a road side
I am building a temple of goodness
I am leaving my name as inheritance
In the face of my child
Will arrive your delayed letter
And will open as a testament
The wet hands of the builders

Then I will sing
A symphony and music
The chamber of happiness
Over the grass of my body in that world
Completely the same

Is the writing unraveling the truth or lies
Come and testify


Are you that anonymous
The author of the lost letter
That opened at the future time
And cleaned it just as the body
With the sick wound
Of your hatred

The first line of it
Homo Hominus Lupus est
And the wolf with a tale at the stairs
In a legend leaves me behind
In front of the eyes as long as alive

Aren’t you the one leaving a testament
To your generation born not guilty
This writing, black, black, black
As a testimony of your blindness
And hatred

Time heals
But words are not dead in a book
The black color of your writing
Is defended through the shelf’s

Aren’t you who melted the oil
And extinguished the fire
Darkened the time that became forgetful
And testimony of your blindness
Where they will find you
To respond
You are not today, not tomorrow
Is unraveled only your shame



Drunkening the fish at the hook
Olives and cheese
Walnuts and holy blood

In another the unknown dimension
I walk on my feet in this world
See the old furnishings how they shine
The view not enjoyed with the language of a tree
Repraises the euphoria of childhood

Where am I
To take me sleeping in the fields
And to throw me in the shallow creek

A random who had a house
In the world’s streets
Gave a wife to tear apart Geisha Edgar Poe
Left the soul to its hand
For five silver coins
Run and run throughout the planet
Always near the door
Without trespassing once the gate of Nirvana

A good work
Did not see the death by itself

Who ruined throughout the world
With his yellow body


From the bed of longing for nine years
An instant arose with its feet
And came around the house just as the mill
The wolf screamed above in the mountains
Was a great day and a jorgovan like wind
Before the night of chaos

How a few turned that world into nirvana
As a dark dot of universe
Up to the bed of nine years of sorrow
Brought a spoon of breadth
After that is the door of death

While entering in that space without weight
The body would bother you
The six organs are looking
Touching in the fifth dimension
Those who return
Forget all the languages.


The strong scent of medical treatment
Just as the smell of soil when emerging from grave
You are not a dream neither death
Nor heavy and quantity
I can call you freely a men with a name
Responds and falls from the roof
Just as the balancer in the circus

The sweetness of words took my mind
What is drinking my soul that doesn’t know to become awake
From the static world of wind with freshness

Deceptions leave me on Earth
The words that describe the flower
Breadth is ending by storm actions
What did I do


ENGJËLL I. BERISHA: He was born on June 17th, 1962, District of Gjakova, Kosovo. During his studies on Albanian Language and Literature in Prishtina, has frequently published on periodicals since 1985 and continued for many years. Published his first book in 1990 while continuing later with four poetry volumes. In 1993 established the Literary magazine “Fiction Magazine” while serving as its managing editor. Has been a contributor on almost every newspaper published in Kosova, while in 1995-1999, worked as an investigative journalist in the daily “Bota Sot” and in the weekly “Eurozeri”. In 1997 in the traditional conferences of Gjeçovi, earned the annual prize for best poetry. In 2002, in the conference of poetry, won the prize of “poetry gathering” with his book entitled: “Çati eshtrash”(House Ceiling of Dreams). In December 2006, won a literary prize, “Serembe on Poetry” with his book, “Drunken memory” from the Art Club of Laç. His verses are included in the anthology “To whom are you fatherland”, authored by Ali Podrimja. Is the founder and managing editor of the journal of those Missing in Action and have Dissapeared “April 27”. Since 2005 is the chairman of the Literary Club “Gjon Nikolle Kazazi”, in Gjakova. For many years has been a staff member and for fifteen years serves as the director of the regional “Ibrahim Rugova” Library in Gjakova.

No comments :

Post a Comment