Time is preserved in the museum,a time of true archaeological worth,an ancient Illyrian skeleton,that comes to us from antiquity.
Beyond the human skeleton,a Neolithic statue smiles,a girl with a blushing face,was trying to put a dress on it.
In other museum rooms,where we had much brighter lighting,the museum was jealously guarding,my grandfather's plough.
Further down at the end of the corridor,the Trojan Horse was eating its oats,clopping without moving from its spot,neighing to summon the time of betrayal.
All the other relics stood row by row,just as they have come down from history,it seemed Gjergji's sword was asking me:does Albania live on.
But no one knew of my worry,an idea that took hold of me,that these verses of mine too,might hang somewhere in that museum.
