Edi Pushes Them, Sala Throws Them in the Pit

ELEGY FOR THE FATHERS OF THE NATION

Not just for laughs

The bell is ringing, heard from afar,Pitiful cries in the street and the park.

Some curse with spite, some others laugh,Some stay on the sidelines, grinning and mocking.

One throws them in the fire, the other in the lead,Human life is a needle that gets lost.

Edi keeps pushing them, makes them cannon fodder,Sala strikes them and throws them in the pit.

The first wants a name, and demands a seat,The other takes your life in the public square.

Rivers of blood flow through the streets of Tirana,One pours it from the soul, the other dries it with promises.

In the name of blood, one wants power,The other grips it tight and never sells it.

One drives the crowd like a flock to the pasture,Death to the shepherd who doesn't know what he says..

He wants to become prime minister himself,He speaks and sells himself as a virgin man.

As a virgin man, who doesn't want a seat,But to raise the country up economically.

For the good of his impoverished people,Many times he makes a mountain out of a molehill.

He turns it into a buffalo and even gives it horns,While playing the angel and the kind-hearted man.

Shame on themselves and on all of Albania,Which they have milked, robbed, and disgraced.

For an Ilir who is also flawedDon't his actions show this easily?

Who stands and sells himself like a whore,For monetary value, for name and fame.

And the people wait for things to get betterFrom this flawed man, an unlicked calf.

Or from the father who is a crooked piece of wood,Who does his work as if in a dream.

He is completely drunk when he wakes in the morning,The poor people wait, while he stands and laughs.

What can the people expect from you, oh Sali,You are no good as a shepherd, not even for cows and goats.

For the very flock you have in your head,Has migrated because you cannot keep it.

Come, please, lead this dance,With a chairwoman who is lame.

She doesn't limp herself, it is true,But the whole nation has limped for a lifetime.

Leave me, please, so I don't speak in vain...About grandpa Nishan, who shoots with a Cannon.

One is Nishan and the other Ilir,The wretched people are wasting away every day.

Come, please, oh honored nation,Go ahead, my dear, see who you voted for...

What you gave, that is what you will reap,Suffering and misery until you die...

Who are you complaining to, my suffering people,And why do you rise up now in demonstration?

You gave the seal and the signature yourself,You chose murderers and thieves for this mother...

Now please, why do you expect good thingsWhen you throw the angel lamb to the wild beasts.

A few years ago you heard a lot of barking,And you dreamed of fairy tales and intoxication...

But the dogs, my dear, don't just know how to bark,They also bite your legs and your ribs...

And you are feeling this pain in your body,And you feel sorry, and you feel ashamed...

But know this, my friend, the wise proverb says:“What you sow, you shall reap, for all time in the world.”

But you planted a hybrid seed,A bit Enverian, in weight and in deceit.

Now you expect a good and ripe fruit,Does a wise man come from a deranged breed?

Therefore, brother, when your time comes,Do not trumpet for pigs and scoundrels.

But take a sieve, and shake it lightly,Separate the good flour from the chaff and the bran...

And again, do not listen to a parrot Edi,Who comes out with drums and a town crier's voice...

As he makes hieroglyphs with his hands and feet,And trumpets about the abundance...

For the years pass and the heat comes again,The sweat will pour, you will complain again...

The wise old man says it wisely and clearly:“Where you see promises, take a small basket.”

Do not look at the color of the soft-leaved Beech,It is beautiful but it bears no fruit…

In your garden, my good mother,You need a tree with ripened fruit.

You don't need the name, Edlirë or Gramoz,The belt must be tightened, the sea didn't turn to yogurt...

The table must be set even without slaughtering a ram,You don't need an Olldash, nor a toastmaster.

But the thought must be mature,And never the desire to cut and to fleece...

For the old man says, with a mind like a deep well:“Albania the rooster was reduced to a slice.”

And when there is one slice on a table,With dozens waiting, they cut it and grind it...

Culture is forgotten and knives are snatched up,Behind the beautiful word, intrigues lie hidden...

So people, please, put your finger to your head,Now that you stand at the edge of the pit...

Because if you fall in, among wolves and hyenas,The drama itself is over, and the stage with it.

Because a wise proverb in my parts,Says: “The bad child shames the father...”

Please, the actors for the stage of the times,Change them so you don't become the shame of the world...

For the roles being played today are difficult,They need friendship and accomplished minds...

Otherwise today's drama becomes a tragedy,And Mother Albania pays the price.

To stand with your head high, my honored mother,The tares must be weeded from the wheat...

Because then, mother, rest assured,The bread on the table will be bitter...

True, the wound hurts, but for it to heal,The microbe inside it must be fought...

Whenever my mother rocked me in my cradle,She sang sweet fairy tales over me.

I loved to listen to her so much,She would say: “Better an empty cradle, than the devil inside”...

“Forgive me, mother, for these heavy words”!

ALBANIA, OH MY MOTHER

In place of humor

Albania, oh my mother, though I am an exile,The wound in my heart will never heal.

For when I left I left you bare, like a badly shaken rug,And they had flayed your jacket and your skin to hell.

My years passed out in the world, for a long time I didn't see you,Following your trace and 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, terrified,Won't you tell me, dear mother, who has tormented you so?

Freedom knocked on the door, the nineties passed 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 who is robbing you!

Through the centuries they robbed you, sometimes with sword and knife,Serbs, Greeks, and Italians, and others completely shameless.

Mother takes a deep breath, sighs like a storm:“Across my withered body, I experienced theft and violence.

But now I feel so sorry, that is why my black eye weeps,Because those who are flaying me are my very own sons.

One is named Sali, the other a flawed Ilir,A tall one always stands and waits, that one 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,Little did I know, his sons left the devil behind?

From one murderer, a criminal, whom I couldn't rein in,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 a stitch.

Among themselves they fight, they kiss, sometimes summer and storm,Some fall, some rise, and I pay the price.

When Sali and Ilir joined hands in a pledge of honor,Joy came to my eyes, and a hope awoke in my soul.

But I was wrong, my son, as mothers often are,For the treaty of their union very soon came to light.

It must never be forgotten, it has the foundation of an ancient tradition,The men shook hands, to rob me both together.

One throws and the other catches, four full years went by,That piece that is left, Edi is standing and waiting for it.”

“Oh mother, do not listen to words, they are bubbles in the wind,The vandals play this game on your back forever.”

“I know, my son, I know, but my other sons,Take their bubbles as if they were banknotes of value.

For when the donkey wants straw, he starts braying and making 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, bleats softly,It does not believe that the worst wolf is the shepherd himself.

The flock in four years, many times does not understand,It seals and speaks for itself, but only keeps changing the wolf.

Blood, as you have seen, always flows among the pet lambs,The fierce and crazed wolf is of the exact same seed.”

“Dear mother, what are you saying, deny them the breast they drink,You should beat them with a stick, because they drained your bosom!”

“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 didn't listen when they told me, when I birthed them that night,Do not rock the devil inside, better a dry cradle.

That field which willingly accepts unselected seed in its bosom,Has neither produce to reap, nor fruits to harvest.”

“Oh mother, grab a scythe, mow down the nettles and the brambles,Till the soil deeper, so the plant's value may grow..

Then plant the new seed, water it with good water,Leave Berisha and Basha, throw away Edvin and Ilir.

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