Poezia dhe Letërsia - Poetry and Literature

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Poema e Mjerimit - Migjeni

(translated by Robert Elsie)

Poverty, brothers, is a mouthful that's hard to swallow,
A bite that sticks in your throat and leaves you in sorrow,
When you watch the pale faces and rheumy eyes
Observing you like ghosts and holding out thin hands;
Behind you they lie, stretched out
Their whole lives through, until the moment of death.
Above them in the air, as if in disdain,
Crosses and stony minarets pierce the sky,
Prophets and saints in many colours radiate splendour.
And poverty feels betrayed.

Poverty carries its own vile imprint,
It is hideous, repulsive, disgusting.
The brow that bears it, the eyes that express it,
The lips that try in vain to hide it
Are the offspring of ignorance, the victims of disdain,
The filthy scraps flung from the table
At which for centuries
Some pitiless, insatiable dog has fed.
Poverty has no good fortune, only rags,
The tattered banners of a hope
Shattered by broken promises.

Poverty wallows in debauchery.
In dark corners, together with dogs, rats, cats,
On mouldy, stinking, filthy mattresses,
Naked breasts exposed, sallow dirty bodies,
With feelings overwhelmed by bestial desire,
They bite, devour, suck, kiss the sullied lips,
And in unbridled lust the thirst is quenched,
The craving stilled, and self-consciousness lost.
Here is the source of the imbeciles, the servants and the beggars
Who will tomorrow be born to fill the streets.

Poverty shines in the eyes of the newborn,
Flickers like the pale flame of a candle
Under a ceiling blackened with smoke and spider webs,
Where human shadows tremble on damp stained walls,
Where the ailing infant wails like a banshee
To suck the dry breasts of its wretched mother
Who, pregnant again, curses god and the devil,
Curses the heavy burden of her unborn child.
Her baby does not laugh, it only wastes away,
Unwanted by its mother, who curses it, too.
How sorrowful is the cradle of the poor
Where a child is rocked with tears and sighs.

Poverty's child is raised in the shadows
Of great mansions, too high for imploring voices to reach
To disturb the peace and quiet of the lords
Sleeping in blissful beds beside their ladies.

Poverty matures a child before its time,
Teaches it to dodge the threatening fist,
The hand which clutches its throat in dreams,
When the delirium of starvation begins
And when death casts its shadow on childish faces,
Instead of a smile a hideous grimace.
While the fate of a fruit is to ripen and fall,
The child is interred not maturing at all.

Poverty labours and toils by day and night,
Chest and forehead drenched in sweat,
Up to the knees in mud and slime,
And still the empty guts writhe in hunger.
Starvation wages! For such a daily ordeal,
A mere three or four leks and an 'On your way.'

Poverty sometimes paints its face,
Swollen lips scarlet, hollow cheeks rouged,
And body a chattel in a filthy trade.
For service in bed for which it is paid
With a few lousy francs,
Stained sheets, stained face and stained conscience.

Poverty leaves a heritage as well,
Not cash in the bank or property you can sell,
But distorted bones and pains in the chest,
Perhaps leaves the memory of a bygone day
When the roof of the house, weakened by decay,
By age and the weather collapsed and fell,
And above all the din rose a terrible cry
Cursing and imploring, as from the depths of hell,
The voice of a man crushed by a beam.
Under the heel, says the priest, of a god irate
Ends thus the life of a dissolute ingrate.
And so the memory of such misfortunes
Fills the cup of bitterness passed to generations.

Poverty in drink seeks consolation,
In filthy taverns, with dirty, littered tables,
The thirsting soul pours glass after glass
Down the throat to forget its many worries,
The dulling glass, the glass satanic,
Caressing with a venomous bite.
And when, like grain under the scythe, the man falls
To the floor, he giggles and sobs, a tragicomic clown,
And all his sorrow in drink he drowns
When one by one, a hundred glasses downs.

Poverty sets desires ablaze like stars in the night
And turns them to ashes, like trees struck by lightning.

Poverty knows no joy, but only pain,
Pain reducing you to such despair
That you seize the rope and hang yourself,
Or become a poor victim of 'paragraphs.'

Poverty wants no pity, only justice!
Pity? Bastard daughter of cunning fathers,
Who like the Pharisees, beating the drum
Ostentatiously for their own sly ends,
Drop a penny in the beggar's hands.

Poverty is an indelible stain
On the brow of humanity through the ages.
And never can this stain be effaced
By doctrines decaying in temples.

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Vajtimet e Atdheut - Hafiz Ali Korca

(Kushtuar bombardimit të Drenicës nga Serbët në Qershor 1924)

Më s'tu nda zjarri, më s't'u nda flaka
Më s't'u nda vrasja, ndjekja,shuplaka,
Më s't'u nda therja, mbytja grabitja,
Më s't'u nda shtypja, vojtja, drobitja.

Gra, burra, foshnja për ditë vriten,
Nga vendi vet zhveshur po qiten;
Digjen katundet e përvëlohen,
Ah, shpirti më këputet, prej kujt s'ndalohën.
U germadhove, u copëtove,
Krejt u trondite krejt u shkretove.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Qytetërimi ku asht vallë?
Përse Europa nuk i sheh hallë?
Si s'po dëgjohet topi i shkretë?
Si s'shihet flaka qi del mbi retë?
Si nuk dëgjohet rënkimi i shpirtit?
Pse s'këshillohet kombi gjakpirës?
Në botë, thua, s'ngeli bamirës.
Qysh u shurdhua bota e terë?
S'shohin barbari gjer sot ç'ka berë

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Me top u shuan vëllezërit tanë,
Malet dhe fushat ndër gjak i lanë.
I vranë, i shuan, i handakosën.
Në vend të tyre tjetër vëndosën.
Sa pasuri që patën ua perlanë.
S'di me ç'të drejtë dreqvet ia dhanë!
Më digjet shpirti, kam shum frikë,
Se do t'i sosje kjo politikë,
Fill shqiptari nuk do te lenë?
Fatzijtë e gjorë ku do te vejnë?

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Në ketë shekull kjo politikë
Mrekulli, quhet e them pa frikë,
Kjo politikë racëmbaruese
Për ditë grin pleq, trima, nuse
Kjo politkë lugate shtrigë
Dhelpër dinake, kuçedër e ligë
Faroj vëllezër me qindra mijë
I madh i Vogël duhet ta dijë
Fol, o moj botë e qytetërimit
Përse po shkulet kjo racë e trimit.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!


Kosovë e bukur, oj shpresa jonë
Bujare, trime, ke qenë si i thonë
Sot të zu halli, në zgjedhë ngele,
Kurban po bëhesh për ditë si dele.
Kurban po bëhesh ditë bajrami,
Në Ballkan therret veç shqiptari.
Kështu pse s'duket Xhebraili?
Të të shpëtonte nga thojntë e mprehtë
Të të shpëtonte nga zjarri i nxehtë
Ty moj Kosovë, e madhe shpresë
Se ndaj ty ruhet edhe sot besa,
M'i madhi krahu i Shqiperise!
M'e madhja çerdhe e Trimërisë!

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Pjesa më e madhe e Shqipërisë
Iu dha Serbit e Greqisë
Vetëm i ardhi keq Perëndisë
Për atë gjakun e foshnjërisë,
Dua t'i lutem pak qeverisë
Të marrë masat e ligjësisë:
T'i lutet Frances dhe Anglisë
T'i pritet hovi pake Serbisë
Dhe për Çamërit, fqinjë te Greqisë.

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Për gjëmëzezet zgjatëni zinë!

Nip i Pellazgut, o komb i vjetër!
Nga ti m'i i vjetër nuk ndodhet tjetër,
Dyzet ke patur milione frymë
Te pakoi koha, te çkriu si brymë.
Le Arijanen, Durrës u mbështete,
Nga fati i shkrete si nje grusht mbete.
Edhe këtuze shprehje nuk gjete.
Mento ku ishe, ku je , ku vete,
Tashti pa krahe ke mbetur fare
Për një te vjetër komb, turp e marre

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Se i këmbejnë si bagëtinë!

Ka vdekur fare civilizimi;
Sot veç një lustër ka Perëndim.
Iku mëshira erdhi rrënimi!
Po del mbi qiejt nga do rënkimi,
Në fund te tokës hyfte gëzimi!
Kur po shfaroset një komb ma trimi,
Kurse ka vdekur krejt njerëzimi,
Kurse nuk paska babë a vëlla jetimi,
Fare mos qoftë shtypi dhe shkrimi!

Qani Kosoven dhe Çamerinë
Për gjëmëzezet zgjatëni zinë!

Mos i ndaj lotet, qaj Vardar plaku!
Nat'e ditë ecën të lahet gjaku
Gjaku i shenjtë që derdh barbari,
Me te ushqehet sot çdo fill bari,
O shale i shkretë, qysh duron valle?
Pse nuk po shkrihesh, qysh je i gjallë?
Shembuni male, mbetët te shkretë!
Shembuni bashkë me gjithë tepetë!
Kur komb bujari për ditë po shuhet,
Ty, moj Kosovë, jeta ç'të duhet?
Kur dhe Evropa s'po ta sheh hallin
Për ditë ju therin, ju marrin mallin
Për ditë ju derdhet gjaku
Shpresa ka mbetur vetem te Hakku.

Qani, vëllezër, Kosovën, qani!
Për gjëmëzezën ca ditë zi mbani!

Tiranë , Gusht 1924


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Lamentations of the Homeland - Hafiz Ali Korca

(Devoted to Drenica's Bombing by Serbs in June 1924)

The fire did’t stop anymore,the flame didn’t stop anymore,
didn’t stop the murdering , prosecution, beating ,
slaughtering , drowning , robbery ,
crushings , mourning .

Women, men, babies everyday are being killed ,
from their birthplace they bare them away,
the villages are burned.
Ah , it hurts my soul , nobody stops them ,
you’re becoming relics , broken in pieces ,
shocked , desolate place .

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

Where is civilization ?
why does not Europe see them?
How is the wild cannon not heard?
How do you not see the flame coming out of the clouds?
How can not the mourning souls be heard?
Why is not a vampire nation advised?
Maybe , there is no goodness left in the world ?
How did the world became deaf ?
do not they see the barbar till this day, what he did.

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

With cannons they vanished our brothers ,
the mountains and the fields are washed with our brothers blood ,
they murdered them , wiped them out ,
in their houses they put others ,
they took their wealth, and gave it to others .
with what right?!

My soul burns , I’m so afraid
that this policy of ethnic cleansing ,
they won’t leave a single albanian ,
wretched where will they go ??

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

In this century this policy .
I say without fear , this racist policy
everyday slaughter(massacre) eldery , brave men , bride,
This wicked policy eradicate our brothers
hundreds of thousands of them .
Everyone should know that .
Speak , oh world of civilization ,
Why this nation is being uprooted ?

Wail brothers , Wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

Beautiful Kosovo , oh our hope .
Generous , brave you were forever ,
Today they found you week ,
everyday you’re being sacrificed like a sheep ,
in the Balkans only albanians are being slaughtered.
Why Gabriel(Jibril) angel is not coming ?
To save you from those sharp claws ,
to save you from hot fire .
For you o Kosovo , big hopes ,
because in you even todays Besa (albanian pledge of honour) remain .
You’re the greatest hand of Albania
the greatest nest of Bravery.

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

More than half of Albania ,
it was given to Serbia and Greece ,
The God is displeased ,
for that infant blood.
I want to please the government a bit
Take legal measures:
Ask France and England
to stop the actions of Serbia ,
and of Greece in Cameria(Epirus).

Wail for Kosovo and Cameria ,
Because they exchange them like they were cattle.

Grandson of Pelasgian , oh old nation
there is no other nation older than you
you had millions spirits , faded by time , melted as frost .
You left Aryana , in Durres (Dyrrachium) settled .
From bad luck you remained like a fist ,
Think where you were ? Where are you ? Where are you going?
Now your stuck without wings ,
for an old nation that’s such a shame and disgrace.

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

The civilization has died .
The mercy has gone , destruction has came !
It’s rising above the heavens everywhere the wail ,
at the end of the ground, shall perish the joy of the world.
when the bravest nation is being exterminated ,
the humanity died,
there’s no father or a brother for orphan .
I hope printing and stationery won’t exist no more .

Wail for Kosovo and Cameria ,
Keep on mourning .

Don’t stop the tears , cry o old Vardar(River)!
Night and Days you flow to be cleansed from blood
the saint blood , that barbars made shed
with that blood the grass is watered .
Oh Shalë (Mountains with snow) how can you stand this ?
Why aren’t you melting ?
Split and Fall oh mountains, you remaind desolate!
Split and Fall everywhere!
when a generous nation , everyday is being vanished ,
You , o Kosovo, for what you need life ?
When even Europe don’t see your suffer
Everyday they slaughter you ,they take your goods ,
Everyday your blood is being shed.
The hope is left only in revenge .

Wail brothers , wail for Kosovo !
Keep on mourning .

[Alboz]

O moj Shqypni - Pashko Vasa (1825-1892)

(translated by Robert Elsie)

Oh Albania, poor Albania,
Who has shoved your head in the ashes?
Once you were a great lady,
The men of the world called you mother.
Once you had such goodness and such wealth,
With fair maidens and youthful men,
Herds and land, fields and produce,
With flashing weapons, with Italian rifles,
With heroic men, with pure women,
You were the best of companions.

At the rifle's blast, at lightning's flash
The Albanian was always master
In battle, and in battle he died
Leaving never a misdeed behind him.
Whenever an Albanian swore an oath
The whole of the Balkans trembled before him,
Everywhere he charged into savage battle,
And always did he return a victor.

But today, Albania, tell me, how are you faring now?
Like an oak tree, felled to the ground!
The world walks over you, tramples you underfoot,
And no one has a kind word for you.
Like the snow-covered mountains, like blooming fields
You were clothed, today you are in rags.
Neither your reputation nor your oaths remain,
You yourself have destroyed them in your own misfortune.

Albanians, you are killing your brothers,
Into a hundred factions you are divided,
Some say 'I believe in God,' others 'I in Allah,'
Some say 'I am Turk,' others 'I am Latin,'
Some 'I am Greek,' others 'I am Slav,'
But you are brothers, all of you, my hapless people!
The priests and the hodjas have deceived you
To divide you and keep you poor.
When the foreigner comes, you sit back at the hearth
As he puts you to shame with your wife and your sister,
And for how little money you are willing to serve him,
Forgetting the oaths of your ancestors,
Making yourselves serfs to the foreigners
Who have neither your language nor your blood!

Weep, oh swords and rifles,
The Albanian has been snared like a bird in a trap!
Weep with us, oh heroes,
For Albania has fallen with her face in the dirt.
Neither bread nor meat remain,
Neither fire in the hearth, nor light, nor pine torch,
Neither blood in the face, nor honour among friends,
For she has fallen and is defiled!

Gather round, maidens, gather round, women
Who with your fair eyes know what weeping is,
Come, let us lament poor Albania,
Who is without honour and reputation,
She has become a widow, a woman with no husband,
She is like a mother who has never had a son!

Who has the heart to let her die,
Once such a heroine, and today so weak?
This beloved mother, are we to abandon her
To be trampled underfoot by the foreigners?

No, no! No one wishes such shame,
All dread such misfortune!
Before Albania is thus forlorn
Let all our heroes perish with rifle in hand.

Awaken, Albania, wake from your slumber,
Let us all, as brothers, swear a common oath
And not look to church or mosque,
The faith of the Albanian is Albanianism!

From Bar down to Preveza
Everywhere let the sun spend its warmth and rays,
This is our land, left to us by our forefathers,
Let no one touch us for we are all to die!
Let us die like men as our forefathers once did
And not bring shame upon ourselves before God!

[Alboz]

From the poetry of Gjergj Fishta (1871-1940) - I dbuemi



An extract (roughly translated by "unknown"):

""Farewell my lands
which are slowly disappearing
The sea thunders and the storm echoes
The boat wobbles wave over wave

Toward that one blazing Sun
I will right away go in that direction
Goodbye my blessed country
Goodbye forever

Tomorrow morning by the time when over us
the sunshine beam is gonna fall
Nobody knows how much waters and lands
will keep me apart from you""

[Alboz]

Betimi mbi flamur - Asdreni (1872-1947)

(translated by Robert Elsie)

Around our flag we are united,
With but one will and one desire,
A sacred oath are now proclaiming
For our salvation to aspire,
May only those avoid the struggle,
Those who are traitors to our laws,
Undaunted is a hero through and through,
He dies a martyr to the cause.

With weapons in our hands a-brandished,
We will defend our fatherland,
Our sacred rights we’ll not relinquish,
The foe has no place in our land,
For God has told the world, proclaiming:
The nations of the earth shall wane,
And yet will live, will thrive Albania.
For her our fight won’t be in vain.

Our flag, our nation’s sacred symbol,
We swear an oath to your fair name,
Defend our country, our Albania,
Protect her honour and her fame,
Our praise goes to those mighty heroes
Who in our nation’s past did fall,
Their memory will be cherished evermore,
In life and death will they live all.