Saturday, February 1, 2020



The Weeping Willow

How long, Mom, since I have come to you?
The flowers have withered for sure,
the wild ones have grown very tall,
trying to infiltrate the immense blue.

I bow now before your memory,
like a child who has broken a glass,
and hides the misadventure by any means
in the limpid light of the sun.

My life has hit a crazy rhythm,
each day my steps hurry to run.
I have met so many of those masks
that threaten my thoughts and calm.

I lost the addresses of good people
and I can’t find the sensitive ones.
I have lived days of rain and cold,
drops of tears remained in my eyes.

I don’t want you to be part of this;
you spent many sleepless nights
with me. I’ll close my eyelids and
in my memories I’ll look for your hug.

Dear Mom, on your grave I will change
the flowers destroyed by the winter.
I’d like to offer it shadow in the summer,
I’d like to be your weeping willow.

My Seasons

You see that lovely house on the hill
that has appeared like a giant mushroom?
I would like us to take refuge there,
far from this mad, chaotic world.

You’ll cover my body with flowers,
you’ll desire me in every white petal,
you’ll caress me just like the breeze,
keeping my fragilities in your hand.

When the wind scatters the petals,
you’ll recognize my autumn at once,
my youth lost in lines and wrinkles,
the sunset of faded charms.

You see that house? It seems unreal—
the backdrop of an ancient tale.
I’d like to live there through the seasons
for a year, a month, or a single day.

Being a woman

I have forgotten how to be a woman:
wear an elegant dress with high heels,
try to provoke someone with my charm,
put on makeup and apply lipstick.

With blue jeans and my sports shoes,
with my short hair I look like a boy,
with the certain and heavy step I am
a soldier that happily returns home.

Only my soul has not changed at all,
deep, it is measured in fathoms,
confused, capricious, and sensitive,
the vibrating string of instrument.

A Swallow Without Wings

Talking with you
on the phone
is difficult—
the sound
of the call
falls into a deaf
ear, my joy
undresses slowly
from the zeal.

The minutes pass,
even the hours—
the joy writhes,
shakes in the air,
it loses height,
like a swallow
without wings
it falls
to the ground.

When I Will Lie In Bed

When I will lie in bed tired, exhausted,
the days and nights will seem to me equal,
the sorrow in my chest will make its nest.
I will throw away the multitude of drugs,
I will no longer fear their side effects.
I will use the only cure that is the best for me
but that no doctor would prescribe:
from the illness your kisses will save me.

When I will lie in bed tired, exhausted...

Human Theater

This human theater of fake sentiments,
with lifeless looks and broken smiles,
who knows for how long it will go on,
I know it’s killing me from time to time.

I am sure, somewhere there exist pure
feelings like the water of the stream;
they relax, enchant me, a real music,
to my heart eternal silence, they give.

Thirsty For Time

I’m thirsty for time.
In the days I look
for it desperately,
it slips from my hands
and burns my fingers
like friable sand.

I am a traveler,
I walk in the desert,
the infinity extends
like a white sheet,
it waits for me to write
verses or letters.

Thirsty for time ...

I Won’t Be Silent

I won’t be
there are
petty people
that upset
my sleep,
I’m surrounded
by people,
and passive—
locked up
at home
as they are behind
shop windows.

I won’t be
when I hear
pains that
scream, break
my chest,
when I see
the blood
that flows
in front of
If one day
it happens,
it means
that it is
my end.


IRMA KURTI is an Albanian poetess, writer and journalist naturalized Italian. She is also well known as the lyrics writer of many famous Albanian songs. Her books have been translated into Italian and English. She has received numerous literary awards in Italy and Switzerland. In 2013, she won the IX Edition International Prize Universum Donna (equivalent to Woman of the Year) and the Ambassador of Peace nomination from the University of Peace in Lugano, Switzerland. Irma Kurti has published eighteen books in Albanian language, twelve books in Italian, and four books in English. She lives in Italy.

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