KUJTIM HAJDARI

 

I Don't Know This Winter

 

I don't know, this winter came unexpectedly,

Without sun rays, with a dance of clouds,

White snow poured down with pain,

And a little sadness and longing between us.

 

In the sky, a white dove plays,

Greeting you with delight,

When it sees you approaching,

With a few sounds and a little envy.

 

When it sees you in a snowy dress,

When you step lightly as in a dream,

It comes close to you - takes your hand,

As if it knows how I hold you in my heart.

 

This unexpected winter doesn't know,

It searches in vain among us,

Like many winters that have passed,

Something to chills, something to kill.

 

Take Your Fredom!

 

She spoke in the language of the land they resided,

Words trembling, like the cry of a wounded seagull,

They stained the clear and sweet sky when they fell,

The sky of her tender and wounded soul.

 

He was handsome, beloved, and sweet, that boy,

His voice caressed her spirit like gentle waves,

His gaze, those beautiful eyes that always sparkled,

They threw her into a sea of happiness, leaving her speechless.

 

Thus, she spoke about the secret that was tearing them apart,

She had to protect the boy, leave his love outside,

She spoke of the soulless cancer slowly devouring him,

He had to stay away from her, live long, for both them.

 

"Take your freedom!"  She didn't speak in our sweet language,

She was afraid it would hurt her even more,

Didn't want to speak at all, but the words like heartless soldiers,

They violently jumped speedily the fence of their teeth.

 

She, killed by pain, remains silent like something withered, dry,

She feels neither tears nor his heart pounding in his chest,

"Take your freedom!" they strike like swords,

"No," says the boy, "you will live in my heart forever."

 

The beautiful stories and countless dreams they wove together,

Still fluttered around them, creating a festive light,

Hugs, smiles, and kisses full of love and affection,

Threw them roses and mimosa flowers on their jewellery.

 

*

 

Years would see the boy always by her grave,

And he would sit and converse with her for a long time,

The flowers she loved, he would leave them on the grave,

She would listen and smile lovingly from beneath.

 

We Are A Lot Alike, Dad!

 

1

 

As the mountain is similar to the mountain, so we are, father,

Although often, like the winds quarrel, we have quarrelled,

And often time, like a witch, would not let us get along,

Even though fighting with you, it wasn't easy for me.

 

2

 

You wanted me to fetch water, with the mare Balashe, at Aromatic Brook,

Down at the mouth of the forest, where the foxes divided their prey,

(It had clear water that never ended in winter and summer,)

But we brought it home, forgetting the stream and the well.

 

3

 

You wanted me as yourself, good farmer, to drive the plow,

Early in mornings to bring the wheat at the threshing floor,

While I reap the fields side by side with the tractors,

And we reduced the surrounding land to dust, soft.

 

4

 

I would have liked to make your wish true, to put the plow in the furrow,

also to lose not a grain and measure the field with your eyes,

But time was tight and flew by fast,

I was afraid of wasting time and often forgot about you.

 

5

 

You wanted me to be like you -  two drops of water, we are,

The same face: nose, forehead, those eyes and those lips,

Someone jokes saying: "this little devil is Fiti* himself,

Tireless boy, hard worker like his father and  enterprising."

 

6

 

And dear mother, oh dear mother! "You are as two drops of water"

She told me in her sweet voice, I don't know if she was proud,

Or she was afraid that we looked alike and felt sorry for me,

(My father was strict, so much that sometimes you couldn't stand it.)

 

7

 

Rarely, father, very rarely have you laughed,

When you laughed as if a second sun had risen for us,

I always tried to put a smile on your face,

But I still remained “stubborn”, I remained “disobedient”.

 

8

 

You often followed us curiously with your heavy step,

At the hills and banks where we raced the cars,

"Allah, Allah! - you sighed - what is happening in this country?

Sometimes you took us as geniuses and sometimes as gods.

 

9

 

You didn't call me more, to follow in your furrows and in your fallows,

And your eyes often covered me with a warm sun,

I could see the concern and pleasure you felt for me,

Even if you said me few words and was cold in appearance.

 

We are a lot alike, dad, only that I run a little more,

Like every generation that arrives in history to go further,

You understand well, father, even why you shake the head concerned,

The fatigue and efforts I make to find the pace with time.

 

Note:

 

*Rrahu - torrent, where village women washed clothes

*Fiti - the name of father

 

KUJTIM HAJDARI

 

KUJTIM HAJDARI was born in Hajdaraj on April 10, 1956 in the city of Lushnja in Albania. He completed his university studies in Albanian language and literature in Albania. He worked as a literature teacher in high school. He has been in exile in Italy for years and since 2010 he has also become an Italian citizen. Now live in USA. He has written many volumes of poetry in Albanian and the last in Italian and English. He has participated in many international competitions where he has had several appreciations and awards as: The CUP of the special prize of the "GOLDEN PAGES OF ITALIAN POETRY" 2018. FIRST PRIZE for the diaspora of the Poetry Festival in Albania, 2019. The CUP of prize of the magazine "World poets and their poetry" in Romenia, 2020. FINALIST in 7 places in "Europian Poetry Championship” 2020. He was awarded the title ARTISTIC HONOR OF THE DIASPORA in 2021, by "Jehona Shqiptare" for his contribution to the National Poetry Festival in Albania, edition 4, as the Deputy Chairman of the Festival. He is elected member of the evaluation committee of poets participating in the national poetry festival to be held in 2023, organised by "Jehona Shqiptare” in Albania. Up to now, with his poems he is part of 54 national and international anthologies. His poems have been published in many newspapers in his country and abroad.