Rebel Poet Poem by Sejfulla Malëshova

Listen to me, men and women,
Everywhere,
There's an warrant out to snare me
from Tiranë.
Over hill and over dale and
in the fields,
Their patrols are right behind me
step by step.
I fear not their hunting dogs and
all their guns,
I am off and make my journey
path by path,
I am off and will find shelter
house by house,
Everywhere in this, my country,
I've my lair.
I'm a thug and I'm a rebel
and I'm proud,
Both the beys and, yes, their thrones I
will attack.
I have come to do my job,
protect the poor,
And a war on slavery have I
now declared.

* * *

Who have raised their guns against me?
let me know!
Who's behind me, searching for my
every trace?
Stop a while and listen to me,
soldier boy,
Are you not a peasant's son, a
village lad?
Bide a bit and listen to me,
brother mine,
Hold your pace and save your bullet
For those men,
For the ones who rob, oppress our
piteous home,
For the ones who here exhaust us
in our plight.
And my poems may, too, resemble
me, a thug,
For my lines with black gunpowder
have I filled.
Songs of war and songs of fire
in my mouth,
And a storehouse full of weapons
is my chest,
Verse, my verse, fly off in fury
like a bomb,
Go and furl out like a war cry,
like a flag,
Let our country's people gather
everywhere,
Let the tyrant tremble, quiver
in his hall.
To your feet arise, oh Korça,
matriarch,
With Devoll and with Kolonja,
with Opar.
Come forth now, oh Vlora river,
banner high,
As you'd come to pick your bride up
in her veil,
To the vanguard like Gjoleka,
Kurvelesh,
Beat upon them, Chameria,
like a storm.
Like an earthquake may you bellow,
Mount Tomorr,
May the waves of Shkumbin river
seethe and boil.
Rise up, people, like a lion,
Cast the yoke,
In Berat and in Tirana,
Elbasan,
And you, Mat, Luma and Dibra,
like the wind,
Seize your arms and for your freedom
take to war,
Moan and groan, oh wretched Shkodra,
ancient town,
Come along, arise Kosova,
join the dance,
With Krasniqi, Bajram Curri
and Tetovë.
Let our country's people gather
everywhere,
Let the tyrant tremble, quiver
in his hall.
Verse, my verse, fly off in fury
like a bomb,
Go and furl out like a war cry,
like a flag.

(1935)