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On The Revolution

My cigarettes gave out at the bus station,
Here I stay
Waiting for the next revolution,
A bent and blackened nail
In the church's charred remains.

As if in the barrel of a pistol
All have vanished, cowering
In their homes.
Revolutions are penultimate
But my life is always ultimate, the last one,
You bought my tears cheaply,
My whole body ached in longing
For the people and the barricades.
I want to die and forget, just
Spit it out, I want to die for no good reason,
Or not to die at all if I must do so
For a cause.
I will find some little beggar, a mulatto,
Warm him and raise him in filth.
I invite you all back to my pad
To spit in my face,
But let none of you provoke me with his wounds.

Long live, hail to our new flag
And every old love!
When the day comes, we'll be back on the streets,
Out there hurling stones
At all those who come in groups
And all those who come alone.

Translated from the Albania by Robert Elsie

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4/12/2021 11:01:30 AM #