Excerpt from the satirical book “The Nation’s Worms” preparing to come off the press soon...PILO ZYBAMOTHER, TODAY YOU GRAB THE STICKA SatireO mother, who through the years,Raised your name to the sky...From Pejani, Teuta, Iliri,Who under the calls of the horn itself,The Nation rose up in battles,Without asking what religion was,But only the one single nation,But now, why did we turn the page?The world itself envied you,Graceful from head to toe,They barked words behind your back,Before the light of day had even broken,They plunged knives into your ribs,To rob you of your history...They demanded your honor and your lands,Like cards on a gambling table,They wanted Vjosa, that river of blood,They would not unglue themselves from your threshold...Fushë-Kosova, grain and light,Where antiquities are written...Serbs and Greeks were not enough,Whom with knives, swords, and rifles,You drove away as best you could,But you lost the battle anyway,Because through centuries and ages,Your own offspring betrayed you...We rejoiced that Enveri died,We didn't know that after him the dark,Would follow your life,In the rush of Democracy...The death of a Dictator,Did not take the evils away with it,Because it left behind the devil's spawn,That comes down like a beast from the mountain,And poured over your body and head,Tore up your honor, stole your land,And left them barren in the ditch,Gave a piece of the sea to the Greek...Look, mother, these are the ones today,Whose very name is traitor,These are the ones who make Skëndërbeu,Where the roots of history sleep,A Serb by father and mother,And leave you a widow for life...When Sala sits upon the donkey,Edi like a rooster on top of the beam,Starts to crow, won't let him work,Throws brambles and storms at him...Pours buckets of water on his head,From his sensational words...Not for the Nation, but for himself,He demands mountains and demands seas,He demands a chair and fame,For them he sells his mother, his father!And now the page turns,For that is life itself,Edi mounted on the donkey,Without a halter and without a rope,Stands and shouts till the earth shakes:“Since the time that Skëndërbeu,Made our country a state,The donkey remained vacant for me,”The poor wretch calls himself a king...Sali Berisha with a whip,Strikes him from behind, tells him: “Get out!”Because the chair he lost himself,Feels heavier to him than lead.He thinks the valleys, mountains, and oaks,Were left to him as an inheritance by his father Berisha...Whoever stays mounted on the horse,Tightens the reins and tightens the saddle,Let the Nation end up where it may...One falls and the other rises,Like the whore who washes and combs her hair,To go without panties on her body,I am ashamed to say any more...* * *The square in the middle of Tirana,Became like the neighborhood brothel,Whoever wants and seeks power,Comes out and shouts, calls the people...To overthrow like a flu sickness,The one who just climbed into power...And so, O my mother,It happens to you in speeches,One climbs up, the other falls down,Leading you into sorrows...Flaying your clothes and your body,Without fear, without shame,But worse happens to you, my dear,Your tanned skin,They turn into a drum in their speeches,Woe is me for you, O my mother...The hounds took all your honor,They kept no inheritance from their ancestors,Neither besa, nor blessed love,For life, mother, may they be cursed...As they squeezed your body, your breast,As they stole your wealth,Now they soil your soul too,Every time they fuck you with words...The worst is, they don't know how to stop,There is no church for them to pray in,Their only church and mosque is profit,For them a full pocket, for you dishonor...* * *Rise, mother, you are not alone,Cast your gaze, look at life,You did not give birth only to Sali,Who holds treason in his soul,Nor to Eduard and the rest,Who take your honor every day.You have sons but you also have daughters,Who do not know what fear is...Hand the ropes to your sons,To rein in the donkeys,Who insulted the ancestors for life...To tie some up, to beat some down,To measure their bodies inch by inch,To make them answer before you...You have accepted enough, good mother,These devils with many horns,That are hard to even name...Traitors, for them is too little,They filled the country with blood,They deserve every kind of punishment...Put a bridle on them, please, motherrrrr,So that your light like a moon,That comes from antiquity,Where knowledge itself has its nest,May restore the honor, the glory,That they have wasted in the abyss...Come... mother, rise I beg you,Don't you see, I am in a hurry today,If we leave these ones a little longer,The Nation will shed blood again...Let's gather them all quickly in the fold,Squeeze them tight, but also castrate them,So they stop, ah, by the sea,Quickly, mother, let's circumcise them...Not by their tools, good mother,But by their disgusting tongues...Let's cut off their long tongues,Which they have turned into a shovel,Throwing mud and dirt upon you,Unjustly, without a moment's rest...Grab the stick and the storm,Make your breast forbidden to them today,Otherwise we have lost Albania...