A Poem for... M.K
The yellowed moon,Spilled in sorrow,Seems to have a fever!
It came right up close to me,At my window in London,And speaks to me with pain as an overture:*“My head and forehead are burning,I cannot find the paths,Through pathless streets I am fleeing...
And my body is shivering,My heart is pounding and leaping,How painful and tragic this start of the year!”*It shines dead over London,Like a dim lamp, like a toy,Hoarse in its voice and its body.
It wants to say something,Over London, over the world,Is it afraid, or perhaps ashamed?*I see its tears flowing,And tearing at its cheeks,I open the window slowly!
It gently invites me,Slowly it stammers,With its burned, boiling lips:*“I have come from afar,Over river and over park,To give you some bitter news...
Fragile Mimoza,In Thessaloniki, in leafy Drenovë,Left today with a trembling pain!”*Only this, said the moon,With a furrowed brow, consumed,And fled with its fading light...
It left in my house,Having slain many joys,Sifting the flour of tears!*I called out for it to stop,But it would not listen,It just fled with hair let down over the world...
This unexpected death,Had completely faded it,Had made it waxen and cold...*I closed the window,Far away in a row on their poles,The streetlamps look like candles...
And the leafless trees,With their eyes on the clouds,Look to me as if they are priests...*From my eye a teardrop,Escapes, as if saying something,And falls on the whiteness of the paper...
And slowly begins to write,Then suffers deeply,And the verses turn into an elegy!*But you, beautiful Mimoza,I know not where you are hidden,You have no way to read them...
But even the others,From the winter and from the summer,You will never understand them...*You will never understand,That a poet, a man,Has planted many verses for you...
And they will remain,And will never dissolve,Upon the small, yellowed paper!*And I wrote them myself,And I sang them myself,On summer evenings beneath the moon...
And a whole life itself,In spirit and on the page,Will take the place of your lips!*I never saw you,I never met you,But in silence I crafted verses for you...
For the goddesses,The princess-doves,Wear only the coat of art!*I stayed silent,I counted the comments,And I never gave you an answer...
Only other verses,I wove full of breeze and wind,To measure the silence step by step!*And I had never known,That a fully grown flower,Winter strikes and kills...
I only thought,But also dreamed,To see the sunrise one morning...*But it was not meant to be,That the beautiful moon,Should comb her beauty over the lake...
Blessed beauty,May it be cursed,That goes and finds misfortune!*The hand pens a line,But the mind is silent,It will not accept that you are gone...
Thoughts collide,They cannot find the measure,And flee from the head like lightning...*They burst through the window,They seek to find you,For you to return to life, Mimoza...
They fall and are hurt,They rise and do not fade,But take to the high mountains!*They know not where you are hidden,Sad and huddled away,In Drenovë, or in Thessaloniki...
They seek to show you,They want to bring you back,To tell you, “Moza, do not go!”*But you have gone,My innocent sister,And turned off the lamp of your breath...
Will I ever be able,To call the truth a fairy tale,And seal death with wax?*I do not want to believe,That the beautiful sun has set,And will not rise in the morning...
For after its rays,I, every day in agony,Will wait with hope, covered in dew!*And if you do not come,Or my eye does not find you,I will send the verses after you...
To go out and search,When the mornings dawn,For the veil of your beauty...*I fall silent and take a breath,My soul is filled with frost,But my mind tells me, write, write...
And I realize that amid the verse,My window and the threshold,By writing I will suffer less...*The verses take on her beauty,And today I share the pain with them,And the night does not flee but drags on...
The night is not to blame either,Its long legs are aching,It does not want this day to open a grave...*
