Sunday, November 1, 2020





The Chestnut


The chestnut, the fertile tree of the vertical right

Its trunk, the threshold of the house, its shadow, the house yard

They call it ‘cistinen’ in Celtic

And ‘chataigne’ in French, and ‘gesztenye’ in Hungarian

And ‘kastanje’ in German, and ‘gastan’ in Slovak

And ‘castagna’ in Italian, and ‘gështenjë’ in Albanian

Pelasgian fathers and mothers write this name deep inside the earth with their roots

They left it as a legacy to the light of their descendants’ eyes

To become its guarding angels, I also guard it in the light of my eyes

So does my wife with her jealousy stopping even fireflies from approaching it

Bedrooms guard it all over the world where they bake chestnuts

Exploding in embers and fires of blood

With chimneys of exclamations letting their smoke and vapour out

The chestnut, the chestnut, the chestnut

The wild chestnut, the domesticated chestnut

The gold-leafed chestnut, the red chestnut, the sweet chestnut

The short chestnut, the horse chestnut, the water chestnut

The sea-chestnut, the Albanian chestnut, the Balkan chestnut

The European chestnut, the American chestnut

The Japanese chestnut, the Indian chestnut

The Chinese chestnut, the chestnut... I learned its names

From books I am reading with my ethnic voice

Even microphones or other intruders hurt

The voice like splinters hurt the eye, yes, they do

Famous in the family of beeches and anxieties is this tree

With ‘ah’ coming from the vertical soul either descending from or ascending to Heavens

‘Ah’ is the echo of the steps of the soul walking through the complicated paths of veins

Found not only in the human body, but also in each living form

That is, the form of existence of any tree, of any flower

That you, barbarians, torture, butcher, slaughter and kill

That you, barbarians, slay and burn alive, building the Empire of Plastic everywhere

Barbarians, you are busy erasing birds from the face of the earth

So many years of plastic poultry, of plastic flowers, of plastic trees

Of plastic landscapes, of plastic climates, of plastic people, of plastic languages

Of plastic power, of plastic civilization, of plastic life

All cooked in your barbarian kitchen, barbarians

Only the angels near each of us are by no means made of plastic, no, never

Yet they must watch the bird wings that they say they have

They must flap their wind to drive the plastic stink away

Angles, some of you may fall in the plastic traps

We all have baited at the front doors of our houses

The Tree of Bread, the chestnut

A divine example of the self-regulation of the biosphere


And with groundwater it pushes what you eat inside you

Its body reaching, pulling the clouds, wiping your lips after the meal

Keeping you on your feet, helping you to walk on solid ground

Thus protecting you from falling in the bottomless pits of the erosion of stress and depression

From drowning and walling up in their depths never to be found alive

Billions of living beings are its source of motion it gives to you

Your invisible and generous donator, the planet’s benefactor

The chestnut, the chestnut, the chestnut

Its cupule, what a ball of memory: ‘Awake!’

With its stretched thorns piercing through the most distant ADN and thought

Like a star, it chooses darkness to become visible

Its cupule, what a fist forming the avalanche of black clouds

Never hesitating or deceiving, always turning into rainfalls

Its cupule, what a warning of scratching eyes

Protecting the ‘nut couples,’ all heart-shaped not by accident

Full is its cupule, God bless it, containing only paired fruits

From two to eight, from eight to two, standing side by side

Its cupule, a womb sheltering from two to eight, from eight to two younglings

The brownness of gratitude, each one’s skin

The whiteness of farewell, each one’s flesh

What is this exact even number found in almost every cupule of this ‘tree poem’?

Who knows?

The batteries of the cybernetic robot will instantly discharge

If whatever human thought touches it

In this even number held inside the fist

Who might be the woman? Who might be the man?

Which might be the plus? Which might be the minus?

Which might be the north? Which might be the south?

Which might be the east? Which might be the west?

This even number runs from two to eight, from eight to two

As if aiming to stun the ancient Romans

Whose calendar had even months of 29 or 31 days

The chestnut, the family’s tree with children until they grow up

Never becoming the filthy ‘orgy room of piled-up worms’

Its cupule falls from the branch, scaring and gathering squirrels around

Its paired nuts, ‘for a better life,’ scattering

All over the crazy freedom, thus making the chestnut tree migrate worldwide

And refuse to join astronauts inside cosmic ships

For they know they will lose their fertile ‘even’ number’s clipping limbs there

There they will lack the ‘paired ground’, the earth and the sky, the biological couple

Giving birth to the air, creating the water, setting fire to the fire

Cooking the rich mud of love

Inherent in all existences of form, in all forms of existence

Baby, you are a chestnut couple in the shape of a cloth roll

Man, you, traveller of life’s short travel, have the shape of an unrolled cloth roll

Yes, mystical is the chestnut tree, the chestnut tree, the chestnut tree

Genies and fairies like to stay under its ‘shadow as big as a yard’

They love it so much, they cross the ‘threshold’ that is its trunk

They open the ‘doors, these human bodies’

They settle inside the bodies of people even though the latter claim the contrary

They put them to test to see whether their hearts are welcoming tables or not

Out of curiosity, they might even want to wear material bodies

Using the overused people

Genies and fairies might even want to make the human body

Into extraordinary clothes for themselves to put on

The chestnut, the chestnut, the chestnut

When its cupule falls on the ground

Is it the black magic that breaks down the even number of its nuts standing side by side?

This tree growing at mountaintops, life proving

Human couples first sprout in the sky

Man and woman marry in the sky, and like babies

The things are conceived and formed in the sky to descend and appear on the earth

All the stars are but knots of paired connections, the ‘navel’ is but a code no longer opening

Hey, you, men! Hey, you, women! Why do you refuse to marry?

Why do you refuse to have one baby only or no babies at all? Why?

Because of this, the seashore waves reduce to increasing piles of wrinkles

On the aged mankind’s forehead, yes, because of this, because of you

Oh! Longevity emptied of fresh lives, fertility filled with dry lives

Oh! Emigration rates with deserted homelands and nations

‘Males have become asteroids,’ ‘females have become asteroids,’ ‘they have become asteroids’

Especially due to separations, divorces, domestic violence, and so on

Horror occurs when husband and wife fail to divide by their choice

Horror occurs even when they divide by ‘decimals of consequences’ following them behind

O boys! O girls! When you enter into marriage

In offices of municipalities or in houses of religions

Of which the wreathes are mostly closed windows

Of which the leaves are doors of renting apartments

On that blessed day of legal marriage, at those moments

Let you each carry chestnut cupules

Cupules of the invincible chestnut tree

Put them in your bedroom

I am not a pagan inviting you to ‘devil’s rituals, no, never

Put chestnut cupules in your daily car

Why not?


O! My eyes have become roasted chestnuts

Should I explain it again to you?


The chestnut, the fully divisible answer

The chestnut, the chestnut, the chestnut

Ah, ah, ah




HAMDI MEÇA: Poet, author, philosopher, ..His creativity, of several kinds, manifests man in all stages of life in the homeland and in the world. Awarded and honored with many international awards, medals, titles, diplomas of honor, etc. Selected for publication by serious publishers around the world, such as Croatia, India, Spain, Romania, etc. He is not a genuine writer for children and young people, but for that specific literature he wrote and published 26 books of poetry, 12 books of prose, and created his own memorable school. Especially, if you ask the author about his creativity, the keyword of the answer words sounds, poetry. Poetry books have been translated into English and published worldwide. Specifically: “A Poetic Mountain Range”, “303 Mad Battles” , “Lines”, “Prometheus` Liver” etc. His poems have also been translated into many languages and published in dozens of international anthologies, magazines, portals, Europe, Asia, America, etc. According to observers, his artistry is a unique poetic art of a high class stylistic, aesthetic and philosophical. The author belongs to the Albanian family MEÇA, which the President of the Republic of Albania, in 2017, awarded one of the highest state titles “Honor of the Nation”. He was born on September 6, 1952, in the famous Albanian city of Kruja. After education in his hometown(1959-1972), graduated in 1975 Higher Studies in Linguistics at the University of Shkodra, Albania. Afterwards, specifically qualified and certified in psychology, linguistics, public administration, tourism. Without mentioning contributions to human rights and freedoms, other contributions, or the national and international cultural affiliations he has directed, it is noted that during 1975-1995 he worked as a professor, mainly at the “Skenderbeu” gymnasium in Kruja. 1995- 2008 - appointed Head of the Public Relations Office in the administration of Municipality in his hometown. From 2008 onwards he is dedicated solely to the Art of Writing . Currently is living near his two sons and their families, in the Albanian capital, Tirana.

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