ILIR PAJA

 

 

The Pain

 

It’s not the last leftover fruit

from dinner.

Nor the call of the moon that begins to undress

The night, like a woman's waiting.

Nor the hunger that returns after one’s begging.

Nor the poet's metaphor that gets stuck

On the walls of verses like high castles

Without crossing to the battle’s other side.

It's not even the wind.

This unique memory.

Pain is walking in the misery

Of the night, where there is not a single star.

 

Divorce

 

In the kitchen, a stove is turned off.

One less dish on the table.

The water leaking through the glass cracks.

A slice of bread bitten

Only by the knife.

The unwashed shirt sleeps on the bed

A dead sleep.

 

On Days Like These...

 

 

On autumn days I hide my shadow in the shadows.

I am a memory of the day's sun.

I feel the wind at my back and smile

At the leaves of the tree.

On days like these I am loneliness.

The shadow within me.

The past comes down there like a ripe fruit

From nostalgia.

From behind I see the ripe fruit

Of the twilight sky.

I see the night inside me pouring leaves and tears.

 

 

Translated Into English By Irma Kurti

 

ILIR PAJA

 

ILIR PAJA was born in the city of Durres in Albania on September 20, 1971. He graduated from the Faculty of Philology, in the Department of Linguistics and Literature in the years 1991-1995. From 1995 onward he has been teaching the subject of Albanian literature and language in the high school "Naim Frasheri" in Durres. He has published several collections of poetry and prose. Ilir Paja’s verses have been published in many newspapers and he has participated in literary activities and events in Albania and abroad. Some of his poems have been translated into Italian and English and published in various journals and magazines.