Often I close my eyes
and you leave
Somewhere…, somewhere…! ?
Under the eyelids
voices and endless spaces;
but where could your walking stick,
your age-bowed back
and weary knees,
lead you up, where?
The pathways you follow are dead-ends for the lost;
other laws are in heights of heaven.
I fail to know
I'd rather guess which are their signs,
which hands do they stretch towards you,
which promises do they give?
Oh, as you leave,
on each wrinkle
on each shudder and light
or shadow that hardens in peace
I see a butterfly
cutting her wings hopelessly.
How could you leave this way?
Lips still in wine parfume
caressing eyes that clear the skies
and wake them up.
Refuse either singes they give
I know not on whose behalf;
I want to lock you within me,
and carry you all my life;
others have left theirs leave
how could I do the same? !
Should I nail you on the wall
on a black and white photo
like your husband and my father?
Would you turn into Christ
but I must be the Christ myself;
you may be Mary at the most
Mary who gave birth to a weak offspring
that hesitates to call himself a poet
(who knows whether this is to brag)
Often I close my eyes
you leave for somewhere….somewhere…
But how could you leave me,
how'd you leave like others! ?
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Përktheu: Alfred Kola
Korçë, Albania, tetor 2016
A beautiful and touching peace. Thank you for sharing such personal poem, my dear " poet" friend. Yes, you are a poet and a great one.
Luz you are a wonderful poet and woman... thank you very much... riza
Loss is where we see ourselves. Nothing ever replaces nowhere. A well imagined poem. I am impressed with the exploration of nowhere we know. Thank you for commenting on my A Million Sorrows.
A heart-touching poem beautifully depicting depths of feelings a mother inspires. Sterling inking!
I am honored by your comment and give you the opportunity to read from your poems... respect... dr riza
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Would you turn into Christ but I must be the Christ myself; you may be Mary at the most...........that hesitates to call himself a poet...... i smiled when i read it....... hai my dear Riza you are a poet.... ok? i baptize you today. you are a poet. tony
Thank you Toni; Dear Tony, thank you very much! The word poet is too hard to keep on the shoulders! I think, being a poet is a blessing and a curse as well!