# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Shkrimtarë shqiptarë >  Mimoza Ahmeti

## macia_blu

*ARMIKU IM*

Armiku im,
shpeshhere me fyeve ne menyren me te dobet,
shpeshhere te fyeva ne menyren me te ceket
armiku im.
E c'do te ish jeta ime  pa ty
dhe jeta jote pa mua?
Askush s'mund ta dije
(kur kushtezimi mbaron
qenia zhduket)
Armik.Armiku im!
Prej teje rash ne gjume dhe perftim
te asja qe kerkoja,
prej teje gjelberoi lenda ime, u zgjua
dhe u perendua,
kur vrasja shpirtat mbertheu.
Oh, ne te vertete ti je dashuria 
dhe jo urrejtja ime,
armiku im.

Pikerisht ato qe ne shvleftesuam
ndersa rruges ecim
qe asnjehere s'i ditem,
TURMAT,
qe inerte derdhen
dhe fryme marrin
me injorim lane pasoje
mbi shpirtin tend
mbi shpirtin tim.

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## Dita

Per ata qe kuptojne gjermanisht....nje shijim i poetes Mimoza Ahmeti edhe ne kete gjuhe permes perkthimit te *Joachim Röhm*.





*Die Gefühle des Jahrhunderts*


Schwankend sind die Gefühle des Herzens
wie die Frequenzen in den Netzen schwanken.
Sie Spannung dieser Zeit ist nicht in Ordnung,
ein Schaden am großen Generator, der den Strom erzeugt
(Oder muss man den ganzen Generator tauschen?)

Guten morgen! Du, der den Namen mein Gefährte trägt.
Du, der sagt, dass er mich liebt,
aber nicht weiß, warum.
du, der sich jäh hinreißen lässt von Gefühlen
und mich dann verwundert anschaut,
nichts begreift.

O große Zeiten,
weshalb sind der Menschen Gefühle so oszillierend,
so oberflächlich
wie das Kräuseln auf einer Pfütze - verschüchterte Opfer des Herbsts?
Doch du, wessen opfer bist du?
Warum willst du eindringen in meine Liebe,
eine physikalische 
                      eine Nervenbahn
beschädigen,
                zerstören?
Dich dann davonmachen, fliehen
eine Hand voll halbschrott von Menschen
zurücklassen 
die nichts anzufangen wissen
mit ihrem Material?

Du schaust mir in die Augen.
Was sagen diese Augen?
Der Himmel sieht das Meer an,
doch er weiß warum.
Bekommt von ihm wasser
schenkt den Regen.
Milliarden atmosphärische Teilchen verbinden
die gewaltigen weiten von Himmel und Meer.
Aber wir,
              wir beide,
               was verbindet uns?


Und warum muss diese Verbindung 
                   so bucklig,
                                   so provisorisch sein?

Ich fliehe.
So ist mein Leben,
plötzlich irgendwo eintreten,
Spuren hinterlassen, Enttäuschungen,
Eindrücke ähnlich
Gleichungen mit vielen Unbekannten.
Fährten leg ich in Säuglingsphantasien...

Ich fliehe.
Flieh ich oder werd ich vertrieben?
Nein, ich gehe selbst.
Über meine Schultern kriechene
zerborstenen Leidenschaften, deine,
                                     seine,
                                          des Andern.

Ich kann so nicht!
Ich fliehe.
              Fliehe.
                Fliehe.
Nur die Flucht rettet mich vor dem skandal,
damit es doch wieder in Skandalen endet.
Qualvolle Welt.
Brutales Kapital.
Unfruchtbare moderne Zeiten.
Planetare Prostitution,
                Korruption der paläste,
                                        gewalt.

Warum lasst ihr nicht zu, dass ich meiner Liebe erfreue
wenigstens den einen Tag in der Woche
nur samstags, ein Leben lang?

Unsicherheit!
Du, der die Seele zucken lässt,
du, der nich in den Schlaf der Toten ein Beben bringt,
du, der Traum um Traum verblassen macht
und die Sehsüchte fesselt:
den Verrat bezahlst du mir teuer.

Die Gefühle des Jahrhunderts schlagen aus
wie schwankende Frequenzen in den Netzen.

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## Fiori

*Është çudi kur je femër*

Mua tani me vjen per te qare.Me duket sikur
shkarkesa yjesh me jane grumbulluar te syte.
                                           Dot nuk duroj,
ndersa cengelat e nervave nderas terhiqen
kundrejt njeri-tjetrit.
Kangur me foshnjen ne xhep
duket figura ime se largu
ketu ne bregdet.
Me vjen per te qare.Jam bere barre.
Me siguri molusqet e buta tani
levizin kapaket e forte brenda ujit
dhe kandilet e kuq
kushedi c'udhetim te mahnitshem
kane marre
Eshte cudi kur je femer...
E keni pare natyren kur tmerrohet,fryn
                                           e shkaterron!
Kur si perbindesh shkriferon germadhat
                                              e mohimit...
Pastaj, kur pastaj, e lehte dhe e trandur,
me syte e medhenj plot hije
pret nje vazhdim, nje lindje femije
buze detit ku i vjen per te qare, per te qare,
ngaqe se si eshte, eshte me barre.
Ne ato ore te dites kur molusqet e buta
hapin kapaket e forte brenda ujit
dhe kandilet e kuq
kushedi c'udhetim te mahnitshem kane marre...


*Çmendina me portë hapur* 

Po ikni, po na lini,
duke menduar; "Përgjithmonë",
Nga ky dhe qe ishte juaji, joni,
qe eshte cmendina jone.
Cmendina jone e dashur, mallengjyese
me kafkat shqyese.

O te cmendurit e mi te shtrenjte,
sa ju dua,
megjithese kurre s'ju flas,
megjithese kurre s'me flisni
dhe dot s'ju duroj
dhe dot s'me duroni.
Por ky eshte rit:
ne nuk e shohim ne sy njeri-tjetrin
per pa urryer,
dhe ky eshte shkak
per t'u dashur gjer ne cmendim,
duke buzeqeshur ekzaltisht,
ndersa ne faqe
lotet na rjedhin,
lotet.

Bashkevuajtes te mi
qe ikni mergueshem,
te cmendines sone unikale,
me sy te fiksuar
pas nje ideje te vetme,
oh, vetem pas nje ideje te vetme,
qe askurre s'u pa, s'u gjend askund
dhe s'di ndonjehere ne ka per t'u gjetur.

Shperndahuni, ikni, tretuni.
Vend me vend shtet me shtet...
Oh, cfare piskame pisket
nga cmendina jone
ne oren e vone te perendimit,
kur malli e merr per bijte ne Perendim...

C'trishtim!
Mure te rrjepur..Mure qe gjithmone
kufizojne horizontin
per te lene nje qiell pa fund persiper.

Aty pas mesnate denesjet mbarojne,
dikush me vete po flet:
Sidoqofte shqiptarit,
kudo qe te ndodhet,
i mjafton marrezia e vet...



*Gjithckaja ime*

Vaje te kaltra per ty me leshojne floket
dhe goja s'eshte vec nje pasqyre e krisur
prej dhimbjesh te dala nga mishi me shkulje
prej asaj qe te kam pushtuar kurre per mos te te leshuar.

O dendesi bari e gjelber e kraherorit tend
o drure te eger aromeleshues te kembeve te tua,
o krahe qe vetem krahe dhe vetem krahe leshoni,
o ti,qafe e bute dhe e forte njeheresh
O ti gjithcka,gjithckaja ime,
gjithckaja e nates sime,e dites sime,
ti,gjithcka
O rruzull i erret ,o rruzull i verber,o rruzull shkaterrues
i sedres sate te kafshuar.
Te gjitha ju,gjithcka te ti.
Vete ti:
Qendro,me veshtro,
mos me vdis ne duar
Nje toke nje here e gjetur
kurre me s'eshte harruar!



*Ti do të heshtësh*

Ti do te heshtesh gjate ate dite,
ndoshta per fare ate nate,
kur te mos jete
mbi sferen e humbur te tokes,
figura ime krenare
me syte e fuqishem si shpeze
qe vec lirise i perkasin,
qe ti ti i deshe aq shume.
Ti do te heshtesh djale,
ti do te heshtesh,burre,
ti do te heshtesh,shpirt,
kur te mos jem me une.
Dhe mjekra jote peshtetur mbi klavikul,
do te heshte.
Oh,nuk do te jete me ajo heshtje,nje nga ato qe vibrojne afrimin.
Ajo heshtje e madhe,
ajo heshtje e mungeses,
ajo heshtje e kthimit tend,
ne nje,ne nje,ne nje.
Ti qe gjithmone me mua ishe dy,
dhe prape njesuar,
po kurre bir vetmie.

Do te heshtesh,
ti qe aq pak flisje dhe heshtjet i krisje
ti qe i kishe fjalet si guaska te rralla,
qe m'u desh aq rruge te eci per ti gjetur,
do te heshtesh ti,qe aq shume te desha,
Do te kthehesh ne nje burre si mijera
(kurre nuk mbaron argateria se ngreni burra.)

Do te heshtesh. Do te çohesh. Do te ikesh qe andej,
krahthyer drejt gojes se argaterise do t'ikesh
duke tu zvogluar trupi,shpatullat ne largesi.
(Pika me rafte sa fort ti desha shpatullat!)
Do te ikesh argati im,do te zhdukesh,
dhe ketu historia jone do te mbaroje
historia jone e padegjuar
qe e pergjonin yjet e pikuar
e qe kapnim me dore nen cati.



*Fikje*

Ti kaltërim ke qenë dikur. U erre. 
Nuk e kupton çfarë do të thotë kjo?
Kujto se si vërsulej rrezja ime
shigjetë drejt qiellit tënd.
 - Kujto. 
Kënaqësi e sigurisë të erri.
Tani shpotit të tjerët, duarxhep.

Po buzagazin aq krenar të paqes
përse fytyra jote më se jep?

Si paralajm në ato mbrëmje prilli
me heshtje plumbi ma prisje çdo fjalë.
Ti kaltërim, ti egoist i kaltër,
m'u fike në duar ngadalë.

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## katana

kam lexuar ne anglisht nje tregim te mozes per nje vajze me emrin SYTE "eyes". ma gjen ndonjeri prej jush ate shkrim ne shqip 
ju lutem 
eri

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## Leila

*Per Katanen.*

Mimoza AHMETI

    PROSE

    THE SECRET OF MY YOUTH

        She had a rather curious name. They called her Eyes. I dont know whether she was given the name at birth, the time at which our parents give us names without taking our wishes into consideration, or whether she acquired it as a result of her big eyes. Whatever the case may be, it is true that those eyes of hers had a sense of perception much keener than what normal people could possibly imagine.
        I had avoided those eyes for a long time. I could not help feeling a shudder down my spine when I heard someone whisper that her eyes sometimes underwent a perilous disfigurement. Quite normal people, for instance, had complained that they had seen themselves reflected in her eyes as a drop of water. Other people - serious, respectable and admired individuals - had found themselves not reflected, but grotesquely mutilated in her eyes.
        No, I certainly did not want to see myself transformed into a monster in the eyes of a girl.
        I had taken a decision. Whatever should happen, I was resolved not to let myself be captured by her eyes. But... I had taken this decision before ever being seen by them. And indeed, I was seen by them. Every time I try to avoid something, it homes in on me. Now there is nothing I desire more than to be captured by those two eyes, and this time totally.
        I am presently convinced that everything beautiful on earth is an exception, an anomaly of sorts, towards which everything normal or average is attracted, in contradiction to its nature. Yes, and those all-possessing eyes could do nothing in the essence of their activity other than to constitute an anomaly. They offered a precise reflection. Yes, I realize there is a dose of illusion in most human reflections. It is perhaps for this reason that knowledge as a process is so long and infinite whereas human existence is so short and ephemeral. Because the reflection in her eyes was so precise, many people were confused by them.
        They were the most marvellous eyes I have ever seen in my whole life, the meeting of physical beauty and functional perfection. When I praised her eyes, that is, when I told her I loved her, she replied simply, "My eyes were not always like that. Experience has made them the way they are." She had never spoken to me of the particular quality of her glance. Perhaps she regarded it as a matter of course. And for her, it was one. But not for me.
        I did not understand that when she observed something - a city, a flower or a face for example - a certain space in her eyes remained empty. The objects she observed did not always fill her gaze. It could very well happen that any object, however big it might seem, would leave a void. This unoccupied space in her eyes she often filled with blue sky or with dreams of the future. Such was her life.
        I did not realize either that I was one of the rare human beings (though I doubt very much that I was alone in this capacity) to fill almost all the space in her eyes with my reflection. Almost. But almost is not the same as completely. There was a bit of space left over, a tiny bit of space, indeed so tiny that, had she wanted to, she could have filled that little corner with the reflection of a tree or a bird in the spring. But then, total bliss would have been beyond reach. It is only when her eyes were filled to the full with the person reflected in them, only when no space was left over in them that bliss could be attained. It was a strange game played between her eyes and her brain. Only now am I beginning to understand why she gazed so long at the sky. It filled her eyes to the full. She loved it.
        I allowed my happiness to be jeopardized, the happiness of the two of us. I was incomplete. There was something missing in me, something that created a void, a tiny unfilled hole in the corner of her eye, but it was room enough for a reflection, and by no means the most unusual of reflections: the boon of happiness.
        I could not understand, and I thought a lot about it later, why a girl with big, bright eyes should have made such a sacrifice. Perhaps it came about since, though I was incomplete, I was the most complete of all the incomplete persons she had known up to then. I was almost the one destined for her eyes. I was not completely the one, but almost. Do you understand now? Is it not terrible? It was simply a question of a little tiny something missing, but something which jeopardized everything.
        And so she sacrificed herself. I did not realize that she was constantly reducing the size of her eyes solely to rid herself of that little hole which was always left over beside my refection. If only she had told me, if only she had mentioned the problem, I would have done battle with myself and, why not, done battle with the others to grow in her eyes, or at least to become sufficient. What a shame! I was insufficient, and I did not even know it!
        I did not realize that she was reducing the size of her eyes for my sake. I noticed nothing to begin with. Perhaps she had not started reducing their size at the start since she was waiting for me to grow, to become big. It was later, when she had given up all hope of my growing, that I spotted the wrinkle in the corner of her eye, a fold in the muscle under the skin which disturbed me somehow.
        The days passed. Her eyes became more and more disturbing for me, not in their beauty, but in the way she used them. They had withered, had decreased in size. And all the time, my love had withered and decreased in size. They were not the same two eyes I had caught a glance of at the start - eyes which people, both young and old, would gossip about at length. For me they had fallen into a morass of normality. Even worse. They had become devoid of all beauty. Deceptive eyes. That is the impression they made on me.
        Anger began to take form within my breast. It looked as if she were making fun of me. And anyway, what significance could my love possibly have without her eyes? My words of reproach turned into insult. I could not understand why she put up with me. Her patience made me believe that I was right. I did not realize, as I now do, how rare, how extremely rare people were who could fill her eyes. I had attributed this rarity to my virtue. How ridiculous! She seemed to realize this and therefore put up with me. I was not the one, but I was almost the one... So she put up with me.
        The more I reproached her, the more patience she showed, the more her eyes withered and wrinkled, and the more their glance grew faint. Finally one evening I seized her by the shoulders and shook her in rage:
        "Youre lying, youre lying," I cried out. "You have ugly eyes, the ugliest eyes I have ever seen. Leave me alone! Ive had enough!"
        She was stupefied. As I shouted, her eyes slowly opened. To my surprise, they grew big and bright, penetrating and pure, just as they had been when I saw them for the first time, when... they were still free of me. I dont know why, but I was now speechless, with something stuck in my throat like a bone.
        She gave no reply. She departed with eyes revived as I stood there benumbed from what I had done. No, not from what I had done. In reality, I was overwhelmed by the metamorphosis in her eyes. For one moment, a flash of lightning had illuminated the dark clouds of my doubts, a flash which proved lethal to my hardly profound conviction that I had been the cause of the withering and shrinking of her eyes, the most beautiful eyes on earth.
        I called her name several times over. You will never believe how hard it was for me to call her by her name:
        "Hey, Eyes! Come back, Eyes!"
        But it was in vain. She did not return. Having turned her eyes away from me, I regained the place that I deserved in them. Soon thereafter my happiness dissipated. I had been almost complete, but not complete. I was insufficient. The game played between her eyes and her brain was now interrupted.
        She had no intention of returning. There was to be no more bliss. Perhaps there never had been. She had created it with hard work by wearing out, indeed by damaging her eyes. Bliss is the only thing that we have still not learned to appreciate when it is bestowed upon us. A weakness? Perhaps. But because of it, I still feel human in my suffering. I suffer to become sufficient, to become perhaps something more.
        Some people say that bliss is impossible, unreal. But I got very close and I know what it is, even though I did not succeed in mastering it. I believe that I can do it though. I want to take possession of bliss! Let them laugh at me all they want (laughing at someone else is often nothing more than a painful reflection of our own impotence). I want to attain the impossible. I want to be complete. I want to fill those eyes to the full. To attain total bliss.
        This is the secret of my youth. One more reason for living.

    [E fshehta e rinisë sime, from the journal Nëntori, Tirana, 1990, 2, p. 86-89, translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie, and first published in English in Description of a struggle. The Picador book of contemporary East European prose. Michael March, ed. London: Picador 1994, p. 262-266.]

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## Leila

S'e gjeta dot ne Shqip.

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## ChuChu

Eshte shtjella e mbremjes a nuk e di se cfare
qe me ben te mendoj c'eshte burri,
si leviz mundimi i madh i tij
mbi kete bote te vogel...
Cfare ben qendresa e tij kete ore,
ku dhe per cfare vuan qendresa.

Eshte mbremje,deri ne dhome,deri ne rroba,
mbremje.
Vishen syte e mi me hijen e nje burri...
Perjashta ka zera,por une nuk degjoj,
vetem te qeshuren e bujshme,te paster degjoj,
nje te qeshur burri.

Eshte burri,burri,
nje trup me afer njeriut,
nje premtim,nje gjest me prane se vertetes,
nje permbajtje qe dua te me zoteroje
duke e zoteruar lehtas,pa me vrare.
Nje emer,nje shok,nje besim i pandare.

Mbremja ulet mbi toke,yjte ngjiten ne qeill,
une mendoj c'eshte burri,c'eshte mbajtesi i botes,
c'eshte ai trup neper te cilin koha rrjedh mundimshem.

Me ka pushtuar sonte figura e nje burri,
me ka madheruar shpirtin,persosur finesen,
me ka kulluar ajrin e mendimit te lire.

Ka kohe qe endem me vullnet te mbushur,
me deshire te etur,ritem,kerkese.
E di,ne te gjithe burrat shprehet ai,buri,
ndonese misherimi i plote i tij,
ende s'me eshte shfaqur
te nje njei i vetem.

M.Ahmeti

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## ChuChu

ISHTE NJE RRUGE

Ishte nje rruge ku vazhdimisht kaloje,
ti,e dashur,
ti,e bukur,
ti,ekstravagantja ime,
e te tjereve,ekstravagante,
e share,e poshteruar,e komplimentuar,
si historia e nje pikture te cmuar.

Dhe s'dije as vete perse
te iknin floket ne liri,
ndersa kembet te shkelnin ne morg
te dashurive kufomoide,
qe gjithsesi paten mani
t'i ekzaminonin gojet e qytetit.

Tani nuk je,
tani nuk ecen me ne rrugen qe nemitet,
as hapi yt,
as trupi yt i madh,
as goja jote me mpiksje
neverie dhe pakenaqesie.

Aty eshte rruga,aty,
dhe morgu yt i shperbere...
Kufomat e te dashurave te flakura
neper bordurat e plakura.
Tani andej kur kaloj
mungesen e madhe te orbites sate ndjej,
dhe jap pershendetje skematikisht
me ftohtesine e nje kartoni
te cilin e respektojne per ty.

Per ty,e dashur,
per ty,e share,
per ty,e poshteruar,
si historia e piktures
me te cmuar.

Mimoza Ahmeti

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## ChuChu

KLITHMA IME


Une do te vdes,
me kot lutesh te zgohem nen kete hark te kuq te perendimit
ku pisha digjen,
e kote t'i ngjallesh akrepat e muget te ndjenjes ne kete ore.
Sepse kam rene,kam rene prej kohesh,
E madhe,me zhurme,e vrare kam rene,
me nje plage te kuqe qe e shihja vetem une.
Oh,me zhurme,me shume zhurme kam rene,
e pakallur kam rene,
mbi kete toke kam rene.

Dhe askush s'e pa ku ra ulerima ime,
askush s'e degjoi,
askush nuk e di ku endet tani ajo,
ku ulurin ulurima ime.
Te kam prane rini e fresket,
tendencioze,plot muskuj.
E shoh doren tende te zgjatur permbi trupin tim,
doren tende te forte,doren tende te lutur,
dhe buzet e tua shpirtndjellese i prek e i degjoj me zemer.
Por..une kam rene,une po shuhem ngadale,
nen peshen e trupit tim qe po ftohet
te gjakut itm qe po ngrin ne deje,
nders klithma ime shtegeton e jeh,
dhe vetem per te behem merak une,
ndersa vdes.
Ju a e degjoni?

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## angeldust

*Qe ti je gomar kjo eshte dicka qe duket* 


Fytyre e bukur dikur,tani stigmatike,
ne gjurmet e tua gjej vrasjen qe te kane bere,
ne grate qe i humbe,qe i braktise,a shpetuan duke ikur prej teje,
per mbetur gjalle diku
ne lemoshe ndjenje.
Fytyre e bukur dhe sot,me gjithe prishjen,dyshimin,
dekompozimin,
trup qe zvarrisesh e birresh ne toke te mallkuar.
Mase vigane dhe e deshperuar njekohesisht.
Nje vath ne vesh-dic ja nxit kotesise kuptimin.
Cdo dite humb dicka nga cilesia e yllit,
vdiresh ne rere.
Cdo nate fiton dicka nga pamortesia e vdekjes.
Oh,tani qe po shuhesh,ndersa vazhdon akoma te shuhesh
vervit ne ajer tentakula te tmerrshme vetmie te shthurur
me lak fshikullues kap,terheq e shtrengon,
roberon
me buzet sterile,trupin e pandjeshem.
Shepsh kam rene ne gjurmet e bjerrrjes sate,shfrimit
menyres se terthorte te shfaqjes,helmimit,
fshehjes,sofizmit,lekundjes,se paqenes,
asaj paqendrueshmerie qe nuk ngre dot baze.
Ndjenja luksoze,ne esence shkaterruese,
gerryejne si macet gjire grash te lena.
Rrugehumbur i bukur qe vazhdon te humbesh,
qe di te sillesh por qe etika s'ta permush dot shpirtin.
Jam jotja,me ke,gjithmone me ke pasur,
mbeshtetje,fryme,shteg ne rruge pa krye,
Por ti s'e kupton,ngaqe je gomar,
dhe ky eshte shkaku 
qe une te dua tmerresisht.

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## kalemi

Nuk e di pse s'po me pelqejne vargjet e fundit.  
Mbase nga qe koha i ben te gjitha kujtimet te duken si margaritare.

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## angeldust

> _Postuar më parë nga kalemi_ 
> *Nuk e di pse s'po me pelqejne vargjet e fundit.  
> Mbase nga qe koha i ben te gjitha kujtimet te duken si margaritare.*


Ohhh  :buzeqeshje: 

Ndersa mua me duket se ajo nuk po flet per kujtime, perkundrazi.... eshte gjithshka ne te tashme.

Vetem nje gje nuk kuptoj... "qenia e tij gomar" nuk ka sesi te jete shkaku qe ajo e do tmerresisht. 

Besoj sipas imagjinates sime se ajo e ka vene kete fraze vetem per estetike te vargut ose dicka e tille... Por ne te vertete ajo eshte e dashuruar me nje ane tjeter me pozitive te ketij njeriu (per te cilen ajo nuk flet ketu)... dhe ishte fati i saj i keq qe cilesite e tjera binin ndesh me keto cilesi per te cilat ajo flet ketu.

Te perziera te gjitha... e mira dhe e keqja, e bardha dhe e zeza, jing-jang... ne nje miks eksploziv me pasoja fatale.

Sigurisht, autorja nuk flet per "te miren" ketu ne kete poezi, por duhet te ekzistoje..... pasi nuk e imagjinoj dot si mund ta doje kaq tmerresisht... Sigurisht jo per faktin e vetem "qe ai eshte gomar"... apo jo?  :konfuz:  

Nejse se u zgjata e u bera terkuze... secili e interpreton poezine sipas oreksit  te tij  :ngerdheshje: 

Mua kjo poezi me pelqen shume ... *e gjitha*!!!

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## shigjeta

*Nocione te shkreta*

Nocione te shkreta,
Ne vetmi hapesire prej jush te perbere
Kaloj inerci bashke me ju
Ne hapesiren time te perbere prej meje
Si ne nje qytet ku sapo kane ikur te gjithe
pergjithmone
me nje ndjenje absolute moskthimi
(gje e cila, e di, nuk mund te ngjase.)

Nocione te shkreta,
te mbetura hava, jashte cdo lidhjeje
nga shkaku i mjere dhe madheshtor
qe une nuk ndjej me.

Shqise shqise
Shqise, o viktima ime e pare,
Prape u hape, prape po thith, e pastruar
Rikthehesh ne jete
Truri si nje djall te perdor
I yshtur per krim te pakapshem nga ligji
Shqise, o viktima ime e shenjte
Keshtu dhe sonte
E kthjellet
(o zot, sa e bukur je, kur e kthjellet je)
terheq e thith por spermbushesh
asgje ste pergjigjet, asgje ste perket
dhe ty e dashur, prape te duhet te japesh
por sonte, as per tI dhene  kush ste prêt
askush ste do, o shqisa ime
dhe truri, ky djall magjik
tani po qan.
Dhe sa gjynah qe eshte
Kur qan nje djall!

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## Sokoli

Ishte një vogëlush si drita
me sytë si nata
i gjithi yll.

Qëndroi përpara humnerave të mia,
i befasuar klithi:
Zonjë, ju po rrëzoheni!

E di, i pëshpëriti vështrimi im,
dhe me krahët e mi e pështolla
puthjen e tij të qumësht si seksi i tij-
aq mund të më dhuronte të më shpëtonte.


Gjithë ditën fekondonte lule
dhe në mbrëmje, kur e pickonin yjet
vraponte, thërriste:
Zonjë! Ju po vdisni, ju po gremiseni!
dhe prapë një puthje qumësht.


Ishim të dërmuar të dy:
puthjet me gjarpërinj që patëm premtuar
dhe përqafimet me ujqër
nuk mundëm ti bëjmë.


Dhamë ca puthje me bolla lënguese
që pas një dite bëheshin shëruese.
Shpejtësinë e plumbit ndjeja përballë humnerës
dhe shvoshkjen e pakapshme nga gëzhoja...


Shko vogëlushi im, mos ma shto vetminë
me përpëlitjen tënde për të më shpëtuar,
Shiko si i lëpijnë buzët e kulloshtra, të dobëtit,
duke na lakmuar...


Unë e di: do të qash me lotë zemre për mua
dhe do ta përdorësh seksin tënd si kamë
për tua ngulur në bark
atyre që përqeshin përpëlitjen.


Dhe në gremisjen time do të shoh si në ëndërr
pjalmimin e luleve.
Dhe do të jem per ty më e Bukura e Parajsës
sikurse isha dhe më e bukura e ferrit.

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## Sokoli

Sa te bukur keto dy vargjet:

Ishim të dërmuar të dy:
*puthjet me gjarpërinj që patëm premtuar
dhe përqafimet me ujqër*
nuk mundëm t'i bëjmë.

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## angeldust

*Gjithckaja ime*

Vaje te kaltra per ty me leshojne floket
dhe goja s'eshte vec nje pasqyre e krisur
prej dhimbjesh te dala nga mishi me shkulje
prej asaj qe te kam pushtuar kurre per mos te te leshuar.

O dendesi bari e gjelber e kraherorit tend
o drure te eger aromeleshues te kembeve te tua,
o krahe qe vetem krahe dhe vetem krahe leshoni,
o ti,qafe e bute dhe e forte njeheresh
O ti gjithcka,gjithckaja ime,
gjithckaja e nates sime,e dites sime,
ti,gjithcka
O rruzull i erret ,o rruzull i verber,o rruzull shkaterrues
i sedres sate te kafshuar.
Te gjitha ju,gjithcka te ti.
Vete ti:
Qendro,me veshtro,
mos me vdis ne duar
Nje toke nje here e gjetur
kurre me s'eshte harruar!

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## angeldust

Uau, sa bukur qe ka dale ne kjo foto... Mimoza kjo!

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## angeldust

*DELIRIUM*

I thyer,

                 i errët,

                                    i vrertë,  

qëndroj, dritëlëshoj,
mjaltë rrjedh nga vrujet e mia.
I thyer në pikën më të dobët,
të të mbeturit vetëm,
që askujt s'i sjell dëm,
por mua më mbaron 
prej dhimbjesh
që kullojnë ëmbëlsi
gjaku të shtypur 
në vetmi.

Oh, gjeniale është kjo gjendje,
kur ndërsa kuptoj që gjithshka kam humbur,
lumturinë e pafundme ndjej,
të qenies sime
që e kam në dorë,
atë s'mund të ma dhurojë
asnjë lavdi, kurorë.

Lavdi...ç'është kjo fialë?
Nga mbërriti tek unë,
si ka dalë?
Shpikje!
(Me siguri
ndonië ambicion i dobët.
i panatyrë)

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## Ora

A mund ti sjelle njeri fjalet e kenges "Balade per Halil Gashin"  kenduar nga Mimoza?

Faleminderit,
Ora

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## Brari

Po Sadri Ahmeti, axha i Mozes cfar ben? Me se merret?

Ka qen thone njeri me talente ne letersi dhe arte.
E kan kta si fis nga nji drras mangut me duket..

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