A Caress For The World
I would like to
place a caress
on the forehead
of the Earth,
as one does with
a child
when they are
afraid of the dark.
I would like to
wipe away the tears
of those who
have lost a home,
of those who
have lost an embrace,
of those who
walk in sorrow,
still searching
for a little light.
I would like to
whisper to every wounded heart:
“You are not
alone.
I see you.
I feel your
pain.”
Peace is not a
distant word,
written only in
books.
Peace lives in
small gestures:
in bread broken
and shared,
in a hand held
with love,
in a smile given
without asking for anything in return.
There are
mothers who wait,
children who ask
only for a peaceful sky,
people who carry
within them wounds
that no one can
see.
To them I would
like to offer a promise:
a gentler world,
a world where no
one should ever feel forgotten.
Because peace is
born quietly,
in the heart of
the one who forgives,
in the hands of
the one who helps,
in the eyes of
the one who chooses
to see a brother
in another.
And so, dear
Earth,
heal slowly.
We will be here,
with open
hearts,
to protect your
greatest dream:
to live
together,
without fear,
with love.
The Homeland That No Longer Speaks
We left,
not as people,
but as seasons
torn from their own calendar.
We parted from
the land
like roots
scorched in silence,
and the roads
behind us
remained open
only to the wind.
The homeland did
not call us.
It remained
silent.
A heavy silence,
like a bell
submerged beneath the water.
Our homes grew
old while waiting for us.
The walls
absorbed the dampness of our absence,
the courtyards
filled with brambles,
and the dogs
barked through the night
as if searching
for our shadows behind the gates.
We arrived in
cities of dazzling lights,
where the sky
had no stars,
only signs
glowing like artificial suns.
We learned
foreign languages,
professional
smiles,
lives measured
by schedules,
loves with
conditions,
dreams tied to
contracts.
And yet, within
us,
there remained a
land
that never
stopped dying.
An entire
village continues to walk inside our hearts:
women carrying
water at dusk,
old men speaking
with the vineyards,
barefoot
children chasing the dust of summer.
They still live
there,
in that part of
the soul
where nostalgia
refuses to
emigrate.
The homeland, by
now,
is a broken
voice
that reaches us
at night
from the old
radios of memory.
It is a breath
that throws open
the windows of sleep
and fills our
lungs with earth.
We laugh at
foreign tables,
raise our
glasses,
make plans,
take
photographs,
raise children
who speak other languages.
Then, suddenly,
in the midst of
happiness,
a nameless
absence passes through us.
And it is then
that we understand:
the homeland was
not only a place.
It was the way
our mother
called our name.
It was the scent
of bread in the morning.
It was the sound
of rain
falling on a tin
roof.
It was someone
who recognized our footsteps
even when we
returned from far away.
Now it no longer
speaks.
Or perhaps
it is we
who have
forgotten
how to listen to
its sorrow.
MENDA VRETO
MENDA VRETO is an Albanian writer who
lives and creates in Italy. She is the author of several books published in
Italian, whose works have been translated into numerous international
languages. She regularly collaborates with both online and print magazines,
where she publishes literary articles and essays. Her work has received
significant recognition. Among her achievements is the Special Jury Award in
the literary competition Il Silenzio Uccide (Silence Kills), where her work was
given a prominent place in the anthology. Her first book also attracted the
attention of the prestigious magazine Marie Claire, which featured her
extensively, recognizing both her work and her journey as an author. Menda
Vreto proudly bears the surname Vreto, which is connected to the distinguished
figure of the Albanian National Renaissance, Jani Vreto. She considers this
family name a legacy of great cultural and historical significance.
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