The four seasons

Change like dancers in a beautiful dance,

But hospitality is a season

That never changes.

Poet Sami Mulaj, hailing from Albania, is based in New Jersey, USA

Sami Mulaj, born in Tropojë (Old Tropojë), Albania, He completed his secondary education in Bajram Curri, and pursued higher education at the University of Tirana, where he graduated from the Faculty of Geology and Mining, specializing in mining and mineral enrichment. He worked as a mining engineer but 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. Since 1997, he has lived in New Jersey, USA. Mulaj is deeply involved in the patriotic and nationalistic circles of the Albanian-American community. He is a respected and beloved voice, consistently engaged with the concerns of the homeland and Albanian territories. 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 FIFTH SEASON

In the stumps of the yard,

The broken edges of axes have left,

Like a guestbook,

Endless signatures and lines,

Marks.

The heavy doors of the towers

Cast a breeze,

Like sherbet for brides

When they step over the threshold

For the first time.

In the guest room,

Like a whirlpool,

Magic draws you in.

Everywhere the air embraces,

The springs kiss hands,

Trees open eyes of joy,

Birds scatter clouds and darkness,

Avalanches rest,

Paths widen into trails,

Slopes lend a hand,

Peaks bow before the guest.

The four seasons

Change like dancers in a beautiful dance,

But hospitality is a season

That never changes.

***

MOTHER’S SECRET

Ah, dear mother!

How I wish once more

To be a baby again,

To disturb your sleep,

To see if my mother

Ever truly sleeps.

Do I understand how my mother rests?

As your white hands covered

The embers in the hearth

With ash after midnight,

To rekindle the morning fire anew,

So, too, you hid your sleep

Throughout my life…

***

WHEN I WAS A BABY

When morning dawned,

Grandmother took the path

To the village mill shop,

With an empty milk bottle,

To stand in line,

For me, her grandchild, newly opened to the world.

My poor mother,

Withered by salty pickles,

Her breasts dry,

Waited for that bottle,

Sorrowful, tears in her eyes.

All too often, the bottle came back empty.

That year,

Many children were born in my village.

________________ 

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