LETTER TO THE DEAD
Dear dead of my country!I who write to you have died while living, somewhere far away in exile.I am no longer myself.I do not feel like who I am, I feel like what I do.A former teacher, who cleans toilets, changes diapers and spins her tears,whenever she remembers herself,with a stack of books beneath her head,chewing on lightning.Dear dead of my country!At least rise from your graves,to show the living what FREEDOM is!And to those dead while living,what DEMOCRACY is!I am writing to you, because the living do not listen,neither to bullets,nor threats,nor screams,nor prayers,nor curses,nor the breath of a sapling falling on the asphalt, eyes to the sky,seeing angels hovering above his head, protecting himand black devils at his side,gnashing their teeth and breathing fire,hellfire,venom,terror.Do you know there are many of them?They multiply like ants, like tsetse flies, by the second.They are clothed in anger, in hatred, not all of them, but a great number,a colony.They resemble the Bajloz and carry death,paid well by the devil himself.They break bones, ribs and heads,they drag the flowers in the street by their hair,they have no mercy for man or god.The Vjosa weeps,Dajti thunders,The Seman trembles,The Drin groans,Skanderbeg Square counts its broken ribs.Dear dead of my country!You who did not blink an eye at the Turk,you who flayed the Slav alive,who threw the Italians into the seaand turned the Germans into brazier coals.You who tattooed the besa on your backs,who sold your belongings to buy letters.You descendants of Skanderbeg,who became heroes from mothers' sons.Come and see what you left behind!What you gave your lives and shed your blood for.Your country, mine, was impregnated with snakes,today they come out and poison the earth,thirstily drinking the blood of the youth.Dear dead of my country!I speak to you and my heart aches.Howls reach me from afar,mothers' shrieks echo in me like the north wind.I hear fathers who whisper and do not speak.Grandfathers who sing iso to the plague of the past.Young parents who stay silent and do not burst.Tearful children withered by injustice.They love their country as much as they love the sky,they are songbirds who want freedom,their chests seethe because they see no future,they grab whatever is near,they break the silence with their teeth.Not even death frightens them!They want justice and a window of life,they grew tired of waiting for fate to fall from the sky,they do not know if they are stars or meat on a spit.Dear dead of my country!I am begging you, I, the one dead while living.I write and melt the mountain with pain and longing...
