All that I have loved
I do not know why
Is placed in a test tube
Of dreams
Arben Iliazi, a journalist and poet from Albania, shares his poetry
Arben Iliazi was born on March 1, 1963, in Saranda (Albania). He graduated from the Faculty of Philology in Tirana in 1988. Until 1991, he worked as a screenwriter and then dedicated himself to journalism, serving as a journalist and editor-in-chief for several daily newspapers in the capital. He is known as a poet, essayist, and playwright.
ALL THAT I HAVE LOVED
All that I have loved
I do not know why
Is placed in a test tube
Of dreams
With a shimmering
Glow.
It stirs me
Beautifully,
Purely,
To the depths of
Longing, ready to ascend
Towards the betrayed
Sky
Where the regret of a
Regret
Lies hidden.
***
BIOGRAPHY
Certainly
An explanation
Everyone
Should have it
I was born
In a death
I died
In a life…
That’s
All I remember.
***
ESCAPE
Here I am, finally, and
I… am leaving… tired
To the shells of the
Invisible islands
Towards my known
Unknown
Where the dream of
The moon, hidden.
The sea accompanies
Me as always
Thoughts swirl
Bitten by regret!
They burn tears from
The anxiety of the
Marble Melt like waves to
Waves.
I am leaving… yes, I
Am leaving
From myself, and from
Others
With my secrets
To remain closed
And with the
Brightness
Of the unborn day…
Bending over me
With washed rays of
Light
A vision appears
And disappears like a
Seed.
In the self of others
You will never see
Me…
***
TO THE RIVERS
To the rivers that flow
Beneath the earth
Like a pure swimmer
I sail
Alone in this world,
To confess to the sea
The lost youth
Somewhere outside of
Myself.
And the sorrow
Painted
Over the waters
Of fate
That quenches desires
And extinguishes i
N yellow tides
The sin…
***
THE STATUES
The statues revolve
Among us,
The sorrow of
Centuries
Drips in the square,
Soul-stirred
In the white
Coldness,
They observe the
Present
Without history,
Where chasms echo,
The abyss.
***
HOMAGE
The life of the
Departed person
Always lingers in our
Sight,
Whispering
Full of sorrow
And sighing,
Fluttering
In the deep ocean
Without sails
And without masts,
Where among
Reflections the sun arches
The sunset,
Intoxicated by the
Sensual love of
Forgetting.
***
MY IMPOSSIBILITIES
Ah, my impossibilities
Like the lost
Invisible acropolises!
They dance and dance
In the air,
Beautiful,
Pure,
Stiff,
Lifeless,
Leaving from the living
Deads
And they return again
To myself, with
Longing.
***
THE STEPS OF EACH
The steps of each end
Somewhere while scornfully
Dismissing the
Medaurs in a mystical blue
Deep,
Like a drunken sail
That hangs suspended
Over the ocean
And foresees the
Storm.
On the smooth
Facades of the
Amphorae
The glow is absorbed
By the majestic faces
Of yesterday
That triumphantly
And fiercely
Roar…
***
LONELINESS
From the intoxication
Of loneliness
I have been shortened
Thinned.
In the arrangement of
The disordered
Life has slipped away
From me…
Ah, white loneliness,
Little black foot
A bit younger than
Death!
***
AH…
A bird comes
To my tree
Chirping With laziness
Ah, I am late
To the mass of the
Olive trees…
***
I HAVE TIME…
I have not seen you for
A while
The seagulls cry
Somewhere else now
With shiny wings
Of silver.
In the hours of sand
Winter has come.
Nothing moves
When the waves swirl
Around the sun.
A canoe, like a slender
Ship,
Sees dreams beneath
The sky.
Run and run
With my statue in hands
To place it
Where the world’s madness ends,
Where the grass flourishes
Of times
Unlived…
***
I DRANK THE MORNING
I drank this morning
Out of longing for two eyes
But if the light dies
I swear
I won’t die for you!
***
AUTUMN RAIN
I sit and gather with fists
The rain from autumn eaves
Do you say they are your tears
Of life?
***
WE ARE BORN, WE DIE…
We are born with our stars
We die in their sunset
Until we are born, we love
Until we die
We forget each other…
***
WE HAVE NO TIME…
We have no time to think
We play with words
Life is a theater
Where vice sleeps with virtue
Immersed in happiness!
We have no time to think
We write poetry…
***
MAN AND HISTORY
After work and after smiles
At the border of love and hate
Man and his history
Have lit lights to see
Each other’s face.
***
WHO DIES, IS REMADE
Who dies, is remade
In their original form,
Without the burden of guilt
Weighing on their back.
They close their eyes and simultaneously
Settle with their sorrows
And the world where they breathed
Urging it into its follies…
(Translated by Kujtim Hajdari)
_______________________
Read: The Horses Cry – Poetry from Albania
