Humor
Albania, oh my mother, though I am an exile,
The wound you bear inside my heart will never ever heal.
For when I left I left you bare, like a badly beaten rug,
And they had stripped your jacket and your skin right off, damn it all.
My years passed out in the world, for a long time I didn't see you,
And following your footsteps, your name, many times I fell to my knees.
That breast which for 50 years your loutish sons drank dry,
And they sold you and insulted you, for they were all thieves.
But now you languish again, eyes cast down, tormented,
Won't you tell me, dear mother, who on earth has tormented you?
Freedom knocked on the door, the nineties went by,
You always with a trembling soul, looking up at the clouds.
Who killed you, who scratched you, who stripped you naked,
Who trampled you underfoot, the fierce dictator died!
Mother, clear your eyes today, wipe the tears that flow,
So you can see and recognize those who are robbing you!
Through the centuries they robbed you, sometimes with a sword and sometimes with a knife,
Serbs, Greeks and Italians, and other shameless ones.
Mother takes a deep breath, sighs like a storm:
“Across my withered body, I suffered theft and violence.
But now I feel such sorrow, which is why my black eye weeps,
Because those who are flaying me turn out to be my own sons.
One is named Sali, the other is an Ilir i Metë,
The other always stands and waits, and that is Edi himself.
I once had a thief, a butcher and dictator,
Who vandalized my motherly body like a scoundrel.
When he died, I thought I was saved, I was all health and joy,
Did I not know, his sons left the devil behind them?
From one murderer, a criminal, whom I could not bridle,
Now, my dear son, they have become a whole flock.
Some curse me, some insult me, as has happened all my life,
Now they are dyeing the flags, and leaving me without my underpants.
Among themselves they fight, they kiss, sometimes summer and storm,
Some fall, some rise, but I am the one who pays the price.
When Sali and Ilir joined hands in a sworn pledge,
Joy came to my eyes, and a hope awoke in my soul.
But I was wrong, my son, as mothers often are,
For their treaty of union very soon came to light.
It must never be forgotten, it is founded on an ancient tradition,
The men shook hands so they could rob me both together.
One throws and the other catches, a whole full year went by,
And for the piece that is left, Edi is lying in wait.”
“Oh mother, do not listen to their words, they are bubbles in the wind,
This is the game the vandals play, always on your back.”
“I know, my son, I know, but my other sons,
Take their bubbles as if they were valuable banknotes.
For when the donkey wants hay, he starts to bray and make promises,
Once he is full he forgets and starts making mistakes.
For the full man never knows how much the poor man suffers,
Because his table is so full, he cannot even eat it all.
The gentle lamb in this world, it is known, eats leaves and grass,
But the wolf of power demands blood like a pirate.
The flock is blessed, it drinks water, it bleats softly,
It does not believe that the worst wolf is the shepherd himself.
The flock every four years, many times does not understand,
It stamps the seal and speaks itself, but it only keeps changing the wolf.
The blood, as you have seen, always flows among the pet lambs,
The fierce and crazed wolf is from the very same seed.”
“Dear mother, how can you speak like this, to deny them the breast they drink,
To thrash them with a stick, because they drained your bosom dry!”
“Ah, my son, I understand your plight, and that of the others around the world,
Any action we take today is worthless and in vain.
A mother only knows lullabies, whenever she rocks the cradle,
The old saying holds true today, ‘The pig only wants a bullet.’
I did not listen when they told me, when I gave birth to them that night,
Do not rock the devil inside, better an empty cradle.
That field which willingly accepts unchosen seed in its bosom,
Will have no crop to harvest, and no fruit to pick.”
“Oh mother, grab a scythe, mow down the nettles and the briars,
Till the soil deeper, so the plant’s virtues may grow..
Then plant the new seed, water it with good water,
Leave Berishë and Bashë, throw away Edvin – Ilirë.
And you will see in spring, another color, another scent,
And the plant that will bloom will have another worth...
Whenever the bread has no taste, the earth must be tilled deep,
Through the fields and gardens, the seed must quickly be changed...
Oh mother, may you be blessed!”
PILO ZYBA
