They say the clock has changed,
Sometimes an hour ahead, sometimes an hour behind.
Sami Mulaj is an eminent poet from Albania
Sami Mulaj was born in Tropojë (Old Tropojë), Albania. From 1976 to 1981, he pursued higher education at the University of Tirana, where he graduated from the Faculty of Geology and Mining, specializing in mining and mineral enrichment. Mulaj worked as a mining engineer in the chromium and quartz mines of the Tropojë district and in the coal mine in Gërdec, located in the Tirana district. He has had a long-standing collaboration with various periodicals, both in Albania and the United States. From a young age, Mulaj published writings on a range of social and political topics in numerous publications. Mulaj is deeply involved in the patriotic and nationalistic circles of the Albanian-American community. He has published four books of poetry: Lisat e Mi të Diellit (My Sunlit Trees), Buzëqeshja e së Nesërmes (The Smile of Tomorrow), Dy Anadrinët (The Two Opposite Drin Riversides), and Stina e Pestë (The Fifth Season), as well as a collection of short stories entitled Gurët që Pikojnë Dhimbje (The Stones that Weep with Pain), all of which have been well-received by readers and literary critics. As well as his last two publications in Albanian with poetry: “I Only Hear the Birds,” “Keeping a Name Alive”; his two publications: “The Thief of Love” and “Broken Dreams,” have been ranked among the 100 best-selling books on the Amazon platform.
THE CLOCK OF LIFE
THE CLOCK OF LIFEThey say the clock has changed,
Sometimes an hour ahead, sometimes an hour behind.
Governments of the world tire in vain,
Playing with our time.
They can’t make it round,
Like a ball.
We have our own clock,
Its hands moved only by God.
There are no weddings, no celebrations,
No engagements or reconciliations.
Only deserted lands, forgotten,
Full of thorns and fallen fences.
There is no threshold, no welcoming man,
Tears drip, and even the stone weeps.
Oh, homeland, we leave you without births,
Like a cursed place without farewells or greetings.
We leave you barren and only add graves,
Dry and lifeless, land of the Albanians.
***
YESTERDAY’S MAN
When he was young, he read a lot, but just one book.
On the black-and-white screen, he seemed so cultured,
Like a smoker, even drunk,
He bit into dictatorship’s cigar with his teeth.
He became wise, the wisest on the planet,
He even invented the wheel for the second time,
Our wise poet used to tell us
Once upon a time.
Now, no longer young, but changed,
He’s a loaded automatic,
Though an old model,
With a barrel aimed at us.
From the color screen, night and day,
He kills.
***
TWO ALBANIAN INVENTIONS
TWO ALBANIAN INVENTIONSThe first:
Isolation that left us
Neither alive nor dead
In the earth.
The second:
Depopulation that is leaving us
Without graves
And without a homeland.
***
POETS ARE LIKE STARS
Poets are like stars
Small, very small…
Great, very great
Visible and invisible,
Close, distant, and very distant.
Stars saddle the sky,
And poets roam the earth,
Like stars in space,
Poets only radiate.
And we pretend we can touch them,
Gazing sweetly, sweetly.
But can the Universe be touched?
***
IN ALBANIA, THE CRADLES ARE EMPTYING
(A lament for the deserted villages, towns, and regions, many of them abandoned and without a single chimney or house)
Albania, an ancient land,
Is left barren, without life or homes.
Until yesterday, with gun and pen,
Your sons kept the nation alive.
Today, the eagles resemble ravens,
Leaving and forsaking God.
There is no war, no battles fought,
Yet your people are taken by the wind.
They flee, they flee endlessly like prey,
Without an earthquake, without a lightning strike.
Where for centuries the fairies never died,
They gave us their breast and raised us tall.
In those halls where princes emerged,
No doors open, no hearths remain,
Empty houses, without brothers or sisters.
***
WHY THE GLOBE SPINS
The globe finds no peace,
It spins as if in guilt.
Its inhabitants, the people,
Have not followed God.
And so it is punished with ceaseless motion.
The boundless water of the globe
Is the tear of God,
Given to us freely.
People, instead of rejoicing in it,
Sell it like household goods.
(Translated into in English PhD Ukë Buçpapaj)
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Coordinated by Angela Kosta, the Executive Director of the Magazines: MIRIADE, NUANCES ON THE PANORAMIC CANVAS, BRIDGES OF LITERATURE, journalist, poet, essayist, publisher, literary critic, editor, translator, promoter
