# Kultura > Letërsia shqiptare > Krijime në gjuhë të huaja >  Riciklim i poezive te "harruara"

## Leila

Kam vene re qe cfaredo letersi qe ne vleresojme, merr vemendje prej nesh vazhdimisht per te mos dale nga rutina, dhe shkrimet e tjera injorohen. Isha duke hedhur revistat dhe fletet qe kam ruajtur gjate viteve, dhe gjeta keto shkrimet e meposhtme qe me kishin pelqyer atehere.

Me poshte, flitet per femren ideale, imazhin qe shume vajza perpiqen te plotesojne, dhe se fundi kurre nuk jane te kenaqura... deri sa vdesin. Eshte pak ironik, por mua me terheqin keto lloj shkrimesh, si edhe fabulat.

BARBIE DOLL
Marge Piercy

This girlchild was born as usual 
and presented dolls that did pee-pee 
and miniature GE stoves and irons 
and wee lipsticks the color of cherry candy. 
Then in the magic of puberty, a classmate said: 
You have a great big nose and fat legs. 

She was healthy, tested intelligent,  
possessed strong arms and back,  
abundant sexual drive and manual dexterity.  
She went to and fro apologizing. 
Everyone saw a fat nose on thick legs. 

She was advised to play coy, 
exhorted to come on hearty? 
exercise, diet, smile and wheedle. 
Her good nature wore out 
like a fan belt.      
So she cut off her nose and her legs 
and offered them up. 
In the casket displayed on satin she lay 
with the undertaker's cosmetics painted on,
a turned-up putty nose,
dressed in a pink and white nightie.
Doesn't she look pretty? veryone said.
Consummation at last.
To every woman a happy ending.

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## Leila

Edhe kjo, eshte humoristike.

WHAT'S THAT SMELL IN THE KITCHEN
Marge Piercy, 1983

All over America women are burning dinners.                                                    
Its lambchops in Peoria; its haddock
in Providence; its steak in Chicago;
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning                                                                 
food theyre supposed to bring with calico
Smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker                                                          
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, its
her husband spitted over a slow fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
its a dead rat with a bomb in its belly                                                               
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I
am Spam.                                              
Burning dinner is not incompetence but
War.

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## Leila

Serish nga Marge Piercy.

A WORK OF ARTIFICE
Marge Piercy

The bonsai tree
in the attractive pot
could have grown eighty feet tall
on the side of a mountain
till split by lightning.
But a gardener
carefully pruned it.
It is nine inches high.
Every day as he
whittles back the branches
the gardener croons,
It is your nature
to be small and cozy,
domestic and weak;
how lucky, little tree,
to have a pot to grow in.
With living creatures
one must begin very early
to dwarf their growth:
the bound feet,
the crippled brain,
the hair in curlers,
the hands you
love to touch.

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## Leila

MY MOTHER AND THE BED
Lyn Lifshin


no not that way she'd
say when I was 7 pulling
the bottom sheet smooth
you've got to ___ saying
hospital corners


I wet the bed much later
than I should, until
just writing this I 
hadn't thought of
the connection


My mother would never
sleep on sheets someone
else had ___ I never
saw any stains on hers
though her bedroom was


a maze of powder ___ hair
pins ___ black dresses
Sometimes she brings her
own sheets to my house
carries toiletseat covers


Did anybody sleep
in my ___ she always asks
Her sheets her hair
smells of smoke she
says the rooms here
smell funny


we drive at 3 AM
slow into Boston and
strip what looks like
two clean beds as the 
sky gets light I


smooth on the form
fitted flower bottom
she redoes it


She thinks of my life
as a bed only she
can make right

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## Leila

Sigh no more, ladies.
Time is male
and in his cups drinks to the fair.
Bemused by gallantry, we hear
our mediocrities over-praised,
indolence read as abnegation,
slattern thought styled intuition,
every lapse forgiven, our crime
only to cast too bold a shadow
or smash the mould straight off.

- Adrienne Rich
"Snapshots of a Daughter- in-Law"

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## Leila

Me kishte rene ne dore libri i tij RESIDENCE ON EARTH.

THE DROWNED WOMAN OF THE SKY
Pablo Neruda

Woven butterfly, garment
hung from the trees
drowned in the sky, derived
amid squalls and rains, alone, alone, compact,
with clothes and tresses torn to shreds
and centers corroded by the air.
Motionless, if you withstand
the raucous needle of winter,
the river of angry water that harasses. Celestial
shadow, dove branch
broken by night among the dead flowers:
I stop and suffer
when like a slow and cold-filled sound
you spread your red glow baten by the water.

----------


## Leila

*Rapunzel*
Anne Sexton

A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young.
The mentor
and the student
feed off each other.
Many a girl
had an old aunt
who locked her in the study
to keep the boys away.

They would play rummy
or lie on the couch
and touch and touch.
Old breast against young breast...

They play mother-me-do
all day.
A woman
who loves a woman
is forever young

Once there was a witch's garden
more beautiful than Eve's
with carrots growing like little fish,
with many tomatoes rich as frogs,
onions as ingrown as hearts,
the squash singing like a dolphin
and one patch givenover wholly to magic-
rampion, a kind of salad root,
a kind of harebell more potent thatn penicillin,
growing leaf by leaf, skin by skin,
as rapt and as fluid as Isadora Duncan.
However the witch's garden was kept locked
and each day a woman who was with child
looked upon the rampion wildly,
fancying that she would die
if she could not have it.
Her husband feared for her welfare
and thus climbed into the garden
to fetch the life-giving tubers.

Ah ha, cried the witch
whose proper name was Mother Gothel,
you are a theif and now you will die.

However they made a trade,
typical enough in those times.
He promised his child to Mother Gothel
so of course when it was born
she took the chils away with her,
She gave it the name Rapunzel,
another name for the life-giving rampion.
Because Rapunzel was a beautiful girl
Mother Gothel treasured her beyond all things.
As she grew older Mother Gothel thought:
None but I will ever see her or touch her.
She locked her in a tower without a door
or a staircase. It had only a high window.
When the witch wanted to enter she cried:
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.
Rapunzel's hair fell to the ground like a rainbow.
It was as yellow as a dandilion
and as strong as a dog leash.
Han hand she shimmied up
the hair like a sailor
and there in the stone-cold room,
as cold as a museum,
Mother Gothel cried:
Hold me, my young dear, hold me,
and thus they played mother-me-do.

Years later a prince came by
and heard Rapunzel singing in her loneliness.
That song pierced his heart like a valentine
but he could find no way to get to her.
Like a chameleon he hid himself among the trees
and watched the witch ascend the swinging hair.
The next day he himself called out:
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,e
and thus they met and he declared his love,
What is this beast, she thought,
with muscles on his arms
like a bag of snakes?
What is this moss on his legs?
What prickly plant grows on his cheeks?
What is this voice as deep as a dog?
Yet he dazzled her with his answers.
Yet he dazzled her with his dancing stick.
They lay together upon the yellowy threads,
swimming through them
like minnows through kelp
and they sang out benedictions like the Pope.

Each day he brought her a skein of silk
to fashion a ladder so they could both escape.
But Mother Gothel discovered the plot
and cut off Rapunzel's hair toher ears
and took her into the forest to repent.
When the prince came the witch fastened
the hair to a hook and let it down.
When he saw that Rapunzel had been banished
he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that pricked him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years for years
until he heard a song that pierced his heartentine.
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes
and in the manner of such cure-alls
his sight was suddenly restored.

They lived happily as you might expect
proving that mother-me-do
can be outgrown,
just as the fish on Friday,
just as a tricycle.
The world, some say,
is made up of couples.
A rose must have a stem.

As for Mother Gothel,
her heart shrank to the size of a pin,
never again to say: Hold me, my young dear,
hold me,
and only as she dreamt of the yellow hair
did moonlight sift into her mouth.

----------


## Leila

Nje cope poezi e gjetur ne murin e nje bodrum haremi ne Turqi, e shkruajtur nga nje odalisk (vajze haremi) qe e kishin denuar se vodhi nje pasqyre:

For a two bit
Mirrow lost,
This sitting here is caught
By the men of the century.

----------


## Leila

DEREK WEBSTER

*Odalisque*

            "Now that lilacs are in bloom
            She has a bowl of lilacs in her room" 

      Florida. Wallace Stevens and pink
      ice-cream. My gay friend says, Girl,
      have you ever screamed in anger?
      Well-that's not me.
      I am "slender," sound as a flute:
      in the crisp air of winter, wear nude
      stockings and a lavender suit,
      to find out who needs me.

      In lightning, under sheets, I sweat
      a yellow angel of regret.
      Behind me, grass and branches turn
      green: the world is fleet.

      They see themselves upside-down
      in me. All men are dogs, the married
      doubly so: they think another clown
      floats in my mouth, and has a bone
      to prove it. Well, I won't get carried
      off; I've never minded that,
      to feel a mind work me like meal,
      be written on, oh, even to feel
      a sculpting pen adjust my hat:
      we live for such a moment.
      I've had lovers-who has not?
      Virgins horde their fruits. They rot.

      I played gin rummy with sleeping pills,
      took social visits to a psychiatrist-
      was never asked to pay the bills;
      he made me triste-
      Half-revealed, a crescent moon,
      I stayed up nights, unwhole and sharp-
      knowing that I move,
      not that I fall.

      On airplanes, highrises, trees,
      a peacock of shattered glass.
      I wonder, would I scream,
      to see myself at last?

      Today I cut my leaves and stalk
      a lover, lilac bowl in bloom.
      My train is a promise deferred,
      my French a smile and single words.
      Side to side we'll slowly rock.

----------


## Leila

*Mr. Mine*

Notice how he has numbered the blue veins
in my breast. Moreover there are ten freckles.
Now he goes left. Now he goes right.
He is buiding a city, a city of flesh.
He's an industrialist. He has starved in cellars
and, ladies and gentlemen, he's been broken by iron,
by the blood, by the metal, by the triumphant
iron of his mother's death. But he begins again.
Now he constructs me. He is consumed by the city.
From the glory of words he has built me up.
From the wonder of concrete he has molded me.
He has given me six hundred street signs.
The time I was dancing he built a museum.
He built ten blocks when I moved on the bed.
He constructed an overpass when I left.
I gave him flowers and he built an airport.
For traffic lights he handed at red and green
lollipops. Yet in my heart I am go children slow.

*Lessons in Hunger*

"Do you like me?"
I asked the blue blazer.
No answer.
Silence bounced out of his books.
Silence fell off his tongue
and sat between us
and clogged my throat.
It slaughtered my trust.
It tore cigarettes out of my mouth.
We exchanged blind words,
and I did not cry,
and I did not beg,
blackness lunged in my heart,
and something that had been good,
a sort of kindly oxygen,
turned into a gas oven.
Do you like me?
How absurd!
What's a question like that?
What's a silence like that?
And what am I hanging around for,
riddled with what his silence said?

----------


## Leila

> Nje cope poezi e gjetur ne murin e nje bodrum haremi ne Turqi, e shkruajtur nga nje odalisk (vajze haremi) qe e kishin denuar se vodhi nje pasqyre:
> 
> For a two bit
> Mirrow lost,
> This sitting here is caught
> By the men of the century.



Mirror*

;)

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## Leila

Sylvia Plath - *Never Try To Trick Me With A Kiss*

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sylvia Plath - *The Rival*

If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.
You leave the same impression
Of something beautiful, but annihilating.
Both of you are great light borrowers.
Her O-mouth grieves at the world; yours is unaffected,

And your first gift is making stone out of everything.
I wake to a mausoleum; you are here,
Ticking your fingers on the marble table, looking for cigarettes,
Spiteful as a woman, but not so nervous,
And dying to say something unanswerable.

The moon, too, abuses her subjects,
But in the daytime she is ridiculous.
Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand,
Arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity,
White and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide.

No day is safe from news of you,
Walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

Shel Silverstein - *Cloony The Clown*

I'll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown
Who worked in a circus that came through town.
His shoes were too big and his hat was too small,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes,
He had a green dog and a thousand balloons.
He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall,
But he just wasn't, just wasn't funny at all.
And every time he did a trick,
Everyone felt a little sick.
And every time he told a joke,
Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke.
And every time he lost a shoe,
Everyone looked awfully blue.
And every time he stood on his head,
Everyone screamed, "Go back to bed!"
And every time he made a leap,
Everybody fell asleep.
And every time he ate his tie,
Everyone began to cry.
And Cloony could not make any money
Simply because he was not funny.
One day he said, "I'll tell this town
How it feels to be an unfunny clown."
And he told them all why he looked so sad,
And he told them all why he felt so bad.
He told of Pain and Rain and Cold,
He told of Darkness in his soul,
And after he finished his tale of woe,
Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no,
They laughed until they shook the trees
With "Hah-Hah-Hahs" and "Hee-Hee-Hees."
They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks,
They laughed all day, they laughed all week,
They laughed until they had a fit,
They laughed until their jackets split.
The laughter spread for miles around
To every city, every town,
Over mountains, 'cross the sea,
From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee.
And soon the whole world rang with laughter,
Lasting till forever after,
While Cloony stood in the circus tent,
With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent.
And he said,"THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT -
I'M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT."
And while the world laughed outside.
Cloony the Clown sat down and cried.

Kam qene "hooked" on Shel Silverstein qe kur isha 4, dhe lexova librin me djalin dhe pemen. E ruajta deri sa erdha ketu. He's a classic! Grindem me kalamajte e vegjel nqs ata s'e pelqejne Shel Silverstein.  :^lulja3 Nga Sylvia Plath, po filloj librin The Bell Jar.

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## Leila

*Your Dog Dies*

it gets run over by a van. 
you find it at the side of the road 
and bury it. 
you feel bad about it. 
you feel bad personally, 
but you feel bad for your daughter 
because it was her pet, 
and she loved it so. 
she used to croon to it 
and let it sleep in her bed. 
you write a poem about it. 
you call it a poem for your daughter, 
about the dog getting run over by a van 
and how you looked after it, 
took it out into the woods 
and buried it deep, deep, 
and that poem turns out so good 
you're almost glad the little dog 
was run over, or else you'd never 
have written that good poem. 
then you sit down to write 
a poem about writing a poem 
about the death of that dog, 
but while you're writing you 
hear a woman scream 
your name, your first name, 
both syllables, 
and your heart stops. 
after a minute, you continue writing. 
she screams again. 
you wonder how long this can go on.

*The Best Time Of The Day*

Cool summer nights.
Windows open.
Lamps burning.
Fruit in the bowl.
And your head on my shoulder.
These the happiest moments in the day.

Next to the early morning hours,
of course. And the time
just before lunch.
And the afternoon, and
early evening hours.
But I do love

these summer nights.
Even more, I think,
than those other times.
The work finished for the day.
And no one who can reach us now.
Or ever.

----------


## Leila

*I Am A Beggar Always*
e.e. cummings

i am a beggar always
who begs in your mind

(slightly smiling, patient, unspeaking
with a sign on his
chest
BLIND)yes i

am this person of whom somehow
you are never wholly rid(and who

does not ask for more than
just enough dreams to
live on)
            after all, kid

you might as well
toss him a few thoughts

a little love preferably,
anything which you can't
pass off on other people: for
instance a
plugged promise-

the he will maybe (hearing something
fall into his hat)go wandering
after it with fingers;till having

found
what was thrown away
                                      himself
taptaptaps out of your brain, hopes, life
to(carefully turning a
corner)never bother you any more

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## Leila

Ralph Waldo Emerson - *The Sphynx* 

The Sphynx is drowsy,
Her wings are furled,
Her ear is heavy,
She broods on the world.?
"Who'll tell me my secret
The ages have kept?
? I awaited the seer,
While they slumbered and slept;?

The fate of the manchild,
The meaning of man;
Known fruit of the unknown,
Dædalian plan;
Out of sleeping a waking,
Out of waking a sleep,
Life death overtaking,
Deep underneath deep.

Erect as a sunbeam
Upspringeth the palm;
The elephant browses
Undaunted and calm;
In beautiful motion
The thrush plies his wings;
Kind leaves of his covert!
Your silence he sings.

The waves unashamed
In difference sweet,
Play glad with the breezes,
Old playfellows meet.
The journeying atoms,
Primordial wholes,
Firmly draw, firmly drive,
By their animate poles.

Sea, earth, air, sound, silence,
Plant, quadruped, bird,
By one music enchanted,
One deity stirred,
Each the other adorning,
Accompany still;
Night veileth the morning,
The vapor the hill.

The babe by its mother
Lies bathed in joy,
Glide its hours uncounted,
The sun is its toy;
Shines the peace of all being
Without cloud in its eyes,
And the sum of the world
In soft miniature lies.

But man crouches and blushes,
Absconds and conceals,
He creepeth and peepeth,
He palters and steals;
Infirm, melancholy,
Jealous glancing around,
An oaf, an accomplice,
He poisons the ground.

Out spoke the great mother
Beholding his fear,
At the sound of her accents
Cold shuddered the sphere;?
Who has drugged my boy's cup,
Who has mixed my boy's bread?
Who with sadness and madness
Has turned the manchild's head?"?

I heard a poet answer
Aloud and cheerfully,
"Say on, sweet Sphynx! thy dirges
Are pleasant songs to me.
Deep love lieth under
These pictures of time,
They fade in the light of
Their meaning sublime.

The fiend that man harries,
Is love of the Best;
Yawns the Pit of the Dragon
Lit by rays from the Blest.
The Lethe of Nature
Can't trance him again,
Whose soul sees the Perfect,
Which his eyes seek in vain.

Profounder, profounder,
Man's spirit must dive;
To his aye-rolling orbit
No goal will arrive.
The heavens that draw him
With sweetness untold,
Once found, ?for new heavens
He spurneth the old.

Pride ruined the angels,
Their shame them restores,
And the joy that is sweetest
Lurks in stings of remorse.
Have I a lover
Who is noble and free,?
I would he were nobler
Than to love me.

Eterne alternation
Now follows, now flies,
And under pain, pleasure,
Under pleasure, pain lies.
Love works at the centre,
Heart-heaving alway;
Forth speed the strong pulses
To the borders of day.

Dull Sphynx, Jove keep thy five wits!
Thy sight is growing blear,
Rue, myrrh, and cummin for the Sphynx,
Her muddy eyes to clear."
The old Sphynx bit her thick lip,?
"Who taught thee me to name?
I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow!
Of thine eye I am eyebeam.

Thou art the unanswered question;
Couldst see thy proper eye,
Alway it asketh, asketh,
And each answer is a lie.
So take thy quest through nature,
It through thousand natures ply,
Ask on, thou clothed eternity,?
Time is the false reply."

Uprose the merry Sphynx,
And crouched no more in stone,
She melted into purple cloud,
She silvered in the moon,
She spired into a yellow flame,
She flowered in blossoms red,
She flowed into a foaming wave,
She stood Monadnoc's head.

Thorough a thousand voices
Spoke the universal dame,
"Who telleth one of my meanings,
Is master of all I am."

Adrienne Rich - *Living In Sin *  

She had thought the studio would keep itself;
no dust upon the furniture of love.
Half heresy, to wish the taps less vocal,
the panes relieved of grime. A plate of pears,
a piano with a Persian shawl, a cat
stalking the picturesque amusing mouse
had risen at his urging.
Not that at five each separate stair would writhe
under the milkman's tramp; that morning light
so coldly would delineate the scraps
of last night's cheese and three sepulchral bottles;
that on the kitchen shelf amoong the saucers
a pair of beetle-eyes would fix her own--
envoy from some village in the moldings...
Meanwhile, he, with a yawn,
sounded a dozen notes upon the keyboard,
declared it out of tune, shrugged at the mirror,
rubbed at his beard, went out for cigarettes;
while she, jeered by the minor demons,
pulled back the sheets and made the bed and found
a towel to dust the table-top,
and let the coffee-pot boil over on the stove.
By evening she was back in love again,
though not so wholly but throughout the night
she woke sometimes to feel the daylight coming
like a relentless milkman up the stairs.

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## Leila

Dorothy Parker - *For a Favorite Granddaughter *  

Never love a simple lad,
Guard against a wise,
Shun a timid youth and sad,
Hide from haunted eyes.

Never hold your heart in pain
For an evil-doer;
Never flip it down the lane
To a gifted wooer.

Never love a loving son,
Nor a sheep astray;
Gather up your skirts and run
From a tender way.

Never give away a tear,
Never toss a pine;
Should you heed my words, my dear,
You're no blood of mine!

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## Leila

*Helen *  
H. D.

All Greece hates
the still eyes in the white face,
the lustre of the olives
where she stands,
and the white hands.

All Greece reviles
the wan face when she smiles,
hating it deeper still
when it grows wan and white,
remembering past enchantments
and past ills.

Greece sees unmoved,
God's daughter, born of love,
the beauty of cool feet
and slenderest knees,
could love indeed the maid,
only if she were laid,
white ash amid funeral cypresses.

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## Leila

Pjese nga SAKUNTALA AND THE RING OF RECOLLECTION:

craving sweet
new nectar
you kissed
a mango once --
how could you
forget her, bee,
to bury your joy in a lotus

i don't know
your heart,
but day and night
for wanting you
love violently
tortures my limbs,
cruel man

sensuous woman
in summer love
weave
flower earrings
fromfragile petals
of mimosa
while wild bees
kiss them gently

i can't draw my bowstring
to shoot arrows at deer
who live with my love
and teach her tender glances

bee, if you touch the lips of my love
that lure you like a young tree's virgin buds,
lips i gently kissed in festivals of love,
i'll hold you captive in a lotus flower cage

this cursed heart slept
when my love came to wake it
and now it stays awake
to suffer the pain of remorse

seeing rare beauty
hearing lovely sounds
even a happy man
becomes strangely uneasy...
perhaps he remembers,
without knowing why,
loves of another life
buried deep in his being

----------


## Leila

THE TAMIL ANTOLOGIES

when my lover is by my side
i am happy
as a city
in the rapture of a carnival,

and when he is gone
i grieve like a deserted house
in a little hamlet
of the wastelands

where the squirrel plays
in the front yard

* * *

i am here. my virtue
lies in grief
in the groves near the sea.
my lover
is back in his hometown. and our secret
is with the gossips
in public places.

* * *

my love is a two-faced thief.
in the dead of the night
she comes like the fragrance
of the red-speared chieftain's forest hills,
to be one with me.

and then, she sheds the petals
of night's several flowers,
and does her hair again
with new perfumes and oils,
to be one with her family at dawn

with a stranger's different face.

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## Leila

*I'm Nobody! Who are you?*
E. Dickinson

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us -don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Kjo e dyta s'eshte poezi, eshte kenge qe e kendonte motra ime neteve ne shtrat para se te na zinte gjumi, duke vene koken mbi supin tim dhe duke peshperitur fjalet ne vesh. Nderkohe une kafshoja buzen ne perpjekje e siper per te mos qeshur, here nga zeri qesharak qe bente dhe here nga gudulisjet e frymes se saj, me friken se po te dilte nje gjysem zeri nga une ajo do ndalonte kengen dhe do me kthente kurrizin. Melodia ka nje cilesi dremitese dhe kendohet lehte ne nje grup... si kenget e partizaneve qe kendonim ne oren e muzikes :D
Well, I must miss it. *This Land is Your Land* - Woody Guthrie.

This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was sounding
This land was made for you and me

The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me

As I was walkin'  -  I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side  .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.

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