I had a longing

My tear came out

In the stone of solitude.

Bilall Maliqi, an eminent poet and author from Kosovo, shares his poems

Bilall Maliqi was born on April 8th, 1969, in the Village of Elez Bali, Municipality of Presheva. He writes poetry and prose for children and adults, and is a literary critic. He is the author of 40 books in different genres. He has participated in several national and international literary events. His poetry also published in many anthologies. He is honorary chairman of the Writers Association “Fenix” in Presheva; Director of publications in Fenix publishing house; member of the Writers Union of Kosova; member of the Board of Director of Poetic Galaxy Atunis; Chairman of “Atunis Lugina” with offices in Presheva; member of the Board of Directors of Literary Association “Princ Muzaka”; coauthor of Literary Magazine for kids and teenagers “Djellori” and contributor on cultural matters in “Revista Nacionali”, and Deputy Editor of monthly magazine for kids entitled “Hopes”. Bilall Maliqi writes for the daily newspapers in Kosova and Macedonia.

A LONGING

Through the straights soul

I had a longing

My tear came out

In the stone of solitude

Was a (f) liberty

Of an ancient pain

To invade

And cure

With a hug

That was missing

Where hope drips

And feeds

A river of love.  

***

THROUGH ANGLES OF A STAGE

You arrived in the stage of a dream

Was searching for your name

In that darkness did not see you

Only was hearing a text (written by me)

This voice

With turbulent echoes

Was turned through the platforms

Until brightness

Cut that darkness

Like inferno

Only to watch

My actor

While playing love. 

Translated from Albanian to English, Peter Tase.

________________

Read: I’m not begging you – Poetry by Flora Peci, an eminent poet and prose writer from Kosovo

The post A Longing – Poetry from Kosovo first appeared on Sindh Courier.

The one face I seek, though countless surround me.

Nisar Banbhan, a seasoned poet and writer, based in Karachi, the capital city of Sindh shares his poetry 

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.

The Melody of Your Absence

You are my longing, a rare jewel in an endless sea,

The one face I seek, though countless surround me.

In this crowd, I feel adrift, incomplete,

Yet my heart insists you’re the one I must meet.

Your absence has silenced me in ways unknown,

Leaving me fumbling, lost, in a world not my own.

The sounds of life, once sweet, now grate,

For only your voice can set my heart straight.

This chaos consumes me, relentless and wild,

And all I crave is your whisper, tender and mild.

Day after day, my thoughts are tangled and fraught,

As fate whispers of endings I never sought.

I dread the touch of others’ hands on mine,

For they are not yours—they cross a line.

Don’t look away! My restless soul can’t bear,

The ache of losing the love we share.

What strength have I when the thought of parting grows?

Each beat of my heart deepens the ache it knows.

Your memory clings, like shadows at night,

A pain that glimmers with love’s fragile light.

Will you promise to stay, to be truly mine,

Through every storm, beyond the confines of time?

For in your love, I’ve found my home, my breath,

A bond that endures through life and even death.

 ***

Leave Your Eyes Behind

Who would have thought that parting from you

Would lead me to build a village anew?

Clay walls rise, winding streets take shape,

While restless winds through their corners escape.

At the western bend, a pond lies still,

Its circle like your bangles, soft and filled.

Evenings hum against these earthen walls,

As laughter echoes from distant halls.

A girl’s bangles, carefree, sing in the light,

Their melody dances through sunlit nights.

Beyond the village, a serpent’s path twists—

A scar of the past that fate insists.

Once, a brother’s hand, in a fit of rage,

Left a mark on the elder, a fateful stage.

Shamed, he fled, leaving only regret,

A path untrodden, his face unmet.

No letters come; no birds take flight,

Courtyards lie empty under the night.

Only a lamp flickers faint and dim,

A fragile hope where prayers grow slim.

The moon rises, pale and bread-thin,

A symbol of fate for those who can’t win.

The banyan tree weeps, its roots run dry,

Its branches whisper soft goodbyes.

Gratitude lingers in humble grace,

As dreams dissolve without a trace.

Old newspapers crumple, their stories spent,

Fed to the fire, their purpose bent.

Still, the hearth glows, though empty of gain,

While goats and calves tether longing’s chain.

The elder draws water with weary feet,

Yet none share the milk; the grain is discreet.

Desire has scattered what once held dear,

Forgotten prayers vanish year by year.

Now solitude brews in a steaming pot,

While longing burns for what time forgot.

Questions gather and ache in my chest,

In this village where I exist, dispossessed.

Dreams lie still, thoughts have lost their voice,

While sorrow remains the lingering choice.

Joy is a headline, fleeting and rare,

While despair thrives in the evening air.

This is my home, my sorrowful stay,

Come if you will, but tread lightly this way.

And leave your eyes where shadows bind,

For you’ve told me your heart isn’t kind.

It’s just a stone, no ember, no spark—

And here I remain, alone in the dark.

 ***

The Silent Love of a Father

In youth, we watch our fathers with questioning eyes,

Thinking they do not see, do not realize—

The struggles we face, the dreams we chase,

The changing demands of this frantic race.

We measure them with scales unfair,

What they lack becomes our despair.

If only he had worked harder, saved more,

We think, as we glance at another’s open door.

“Where are you?”

“When will you be back?”

Questions once heavy, now seem slack.

“You’re wearing that old sweater again?” we’d say,

Never knowing the weight of his yesterday.

We judge by houses, cars, the balance in hand,

Blind to the sacrifices that shaped our land.

We blame him for voids, for what we lack,

For futures we think he failed to track.

But time is swift, its hands unkind,

Youth fades, leaving truth behind.

One day, we step into his place,

And his silences confront us, face to face.

The burdens he bore, the nights he prayed,

The dreams for us that he quietly laid.

His laughter, awkward, now rings clear,

A melody born of love and fear.

The pride he wore in simple attire,

The warmth of his soul, like a gentle fire.

His tired evenings, his whispered pleas,

Were battles fought on unseen seas.

And as we, too, kneel in midnight prayer,

Blowing blessings into our children’s air,

We feel his hands tremble in ours once more,

Each word he spoke, a love to the core.

“Do you have hot water?” we now understand,

A question born of a father’s hand.

The breeze that cools becomes his voice,

In the midst of anger, in the heat of choice.

The weight of futures, of lives not yet told,

Sits heavy on us, as it did of old.

Every thought, every step, every prayer he made,

Was a sacrifice, an unspoken trade.

We recall him now, with tears that fall,

For moments lost, for giving so small.

Regret lingers, bittersweet and vast,

For the love we ignored in the distant past.

But those who see while time still allows,

Who touch his heart, who make their vows,

Are the fortunate ones, the truly wise,

Who witness the love in their father’s eyes.

For every wish, every sigh, every dream of his,

Begins and ends with his children’s bliss.

A love so silent, so deep, so true,

Only felt fully when we walk in his shoes.

If only we’d seen, if only we’d known,

The greatest friend we’ve ever been shown.

A father’s love is a quiet art,

An eternal ache, a boundless heart.

__________________ 

Read – Poetry: There is no receipt for love

The post Poetry: Echoes of Love – Longing, Loss, and Silent Devotion first appeared on Sindh Courier.