-Not just for laughs-The bell is ringing, heard from afar,A wretched call through street and park.Some curse with spite, some others smile,Some stay out of the game, they grin and smile.One throws them to the flames, the other to the lead,Human life is just a needle lost and dead.Edi keeps pushing them, makes them cannon fodder,Sala strikes them and throws them in a pit.The first wants a name, demands a chair,The other takes your life in the public square.Rivers of blood flow through the streets of Tirana,One spills it with his soul, the other dries it with promises.In the name of blood, one wants power,The other grips it tight and will never sell it.One drives the crowd like a herd to the pasture,Death to the shepherd who doesn't know what he's saying..He demands to become prime minister himself,He speaks and sells himself as a pure man.As a pure man, who doesn't want a chair,But to raise the country up economically.For the good of his poor people,Many times he makes a mountain out of a molehill.He makes it a buffalo and puts horns on it,While playing the angel and the good-hearted man.Shame on himself and all of Albania,That they have milked, robbed, and disgraced.For an Ilir who is also MetëDon'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 Metë, 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, He just stands and laughs.What should the people expect from you, oh Sali,You're no good as a shepherd, not even for cows and goats.Because the very herd you have in your head,Has migrated away because you can't keep it.Come on, please, stop this dance,With a chairwoman who is lame.She doesn't limp herself, it is true,But the whole nation limps for a lifetime.Leave me, please, so I don't speak in vain...About the grandfather of the nation, who strikes with a Top.One is Bamir and the other Ilir,The wretched people are dwindling every day.Come, please, oh honored nation,Behold, my dear, who you have 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?The seal and the signature you gave yourself,Murderers and thieves you chose 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 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, you also feel ashamed...But know this, my friend, the 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 good and ripe fruit,Does a wise man come from a degenerate breed?Therefore, brother, when the time comes,Do not trumpet for pigs and scoundrels.But take a sieve, and shake it lightly,Separate the good flour from the straw and bran...And again, don't listen to a parrot Edi,Who comes out with drums and a town crier's voice...As he makes hieroglyphs with his feet and hands,And trumpeting about abundance...Because the years pass and the heat comes again,The sweat will pour, you will complain again...The wise old man says it plainly and wisely:“Where you see promises, take a small basket.”Don't look at the color of the soft-leaved Beech,It is beautiful but it bears no fruit…You in your garden, my good mother,Need a tree with ripened fruit.You don't need the name, Edlirë or Gramoz,The belt must be tightened, the sea hasn't turned 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 fleece...Because the old man says, with a mind like a deep well:“Albania the rooster was reduced to a single slice.”And when there is one slice on a table,Where dozens are waiting, they cut it and mince it...Culture is forgotten and knives are grabbed,Behind the beautiful word hide the intrigues...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 proverb in my parts,Says: - A bad child shames the father...Please, the actors for the stage of the time,Change them so you don't become the shame of the world...Because the roles played today are difficult,They need friendship and mature minds...Otherwise today's drama becomes a tragedy,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, be convinced,The bread on the table will be bitter...True, the wound hurts, but for it to heal,The microbe it holds 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'd say: “Better an empty cradle, than the devil inside”...“Forgive me, mother, for these heavy words”!
Pilo Zyba
