Anthem for the Blood
(Instead of a song for
the freedom fighters and the KLA)
No pillar can bearthe weight of freedom like you,my vertical blood!Between the earth and the black clouds,this red flag,on the barrel of a rifle,binds the earth to the sun,brings word to Gjergj Kastrioti,turns Kosovo into a fortress,at the dawn of independence.And with fingers of bloodit strikes the strings of life,as the late night fades.And mothers fill their breastswith milk for their children,when the White Drin pauses a while,pours a handful of water on my brow,darts off like a viper, and brings a ropeto the Albanian soil.Further off a drum shakes the earth,and stars fall like apples from the branches,hastily onto the land of Arbëria.“We are much too late,”they say to one another.
The Tank’s Refrain
And the smoke trailing behind it said:Here is violence for you:Just because you are Albanian!
And the tracks of the chains on the asphaltechoed even more fiercely on the skin:Here is genocide for you:Just because you are Albanian!
And the noise of the death machine,knew only one refrain:Here is extermination for you:Just because you are Albanian!
Kosovo is Serbian,said the grey machine,with its refrain above.
Exodus
The children’s weeping cursed the road upon their own blood,trodden barefoot with mother’s milk on their lipson the road to flee the Illyrian soil,from the flame of death spread everywhere,over the greenery planted in the heart,together with their mother and a bag with a little bread,to keep their souls alive on the migration of birds,toward warmer lands.Welcome, the other half of the homeland would say,the neighbors’ hearth as well,with their hearts laid bare,so the other sons of the eagle,might feel right at home,like at their grandfather’s hearth of old,along with the tales and lullabies,so their sleep would be peaceful,alighting from the wings of terror,without the wail for the other missing son,without a grave or a trace,turned somewhere into a cairn,with stones of blood,a monument of sorrow and cursing,the voice of the cuckoo on the dry branch.
Can We Speak in Red and Black?
And Isa Boletini was late again that dayon the half of my birthday,on the third November in February 2008,with half his soul smiling,in my birthplace.With one corner of his lipshe kissed the flag of the nation,with the other corner,the flag of the newest state in the world,of the other half of Albania,that bears the name Kosovo.His soul had the two colors of the flag.One was Isa,the other wished to be called Boletin.Congratulations, Kosovo!Rejoice in the independence of your blood!The red offered wishes with the waves of the world’s flags.Under the shade of the flowers,rocked by the tank of peace right there.Isa paused a moment and took a deep breath,as if his chest were bursting that day,when through the braids of his felt trousersthe black color was darkening,like lightning striking the earth from the mountain,conducted through a metal rod.Just as my verses conducted,Half with Isa, half with Boletin,when over the two halvesthe eagle with its wings stands upright,writing with a feather in the skythe date of the true November.
Primer for Freedom
Bound with chains on my female body,I hummed like the enemy tank over the autumn grass,to find the primer of freedom,in the black, cloudy night,when I dreamed of the breath stopped in my throatwith new links night after night,so the light of my morning would never dawn,drenched in my blood.And you do not know, my enemy!That I know by heartthe Freedom you forbid me,the poet’s most beautiful songleft to the chirping of the birds,even when you kill it.Still you do not know!That the more you squeeze me,the more my blood teaches me life,crawling to reach the crust of bread,that your boot tramples,on the low table of Kosovo,baked by the hands of mothers.Now go, for I have no time to talk to you anymore!The brave men await me in the mountains.They ask for bread and cartridges,for you, my enemy!.
A Table Set with Bullets
Here you have set it with bullets,the low table where I cooked freedom,for the dinner of my nation,when I returned late from the fields,to bake the new cornbread,for the brave men, whohave not yet returned from the mountains.Mitrovica seeks brave men again,not all the free eagles of Kosovofly over there.You have set it with bulletsmy old enemy,with the same coat!My desire, forbidden now,by the peace of the world,for the full freedom of my birthplace,for my entire land,is waiting in the drawersof diplomatic desks,with one handon the table of bullets,so we might eat them together one day.
An Albanian Bride in Molla e Kuqe
How many times my homeland has shrunk,abandoned by forceby my fellow Albanians,taking with them only the name “Albanian”,with tears in their eyes,their hearts weeping with sobs.My grandfather still keeps today,the old surname “Maqedonci”,from the time when my grandmotherbecame a bride in Molla e Kuqe,in the place where only the bones beneath the earthspeak Albanian,or some bird that flies that wayand sings the name of my homeland,my poem bittenfrom all four sides,bearing the name Albania.
September 07Maki CanolliTears of Earth
Whenever they called me an exile,
I became a sorrowful heart,
watered with tears, drenched with streaks of blood,
burned by the longing for the homeland.
And when they called me a refugee,
I pulled the heart from my chest,
I held it so it would not break,
with soft female hands.
I covered my soul,
with clods of my earth,
I turned them to mud, so
I could tread on foreign honey.
The flowers released poison to me,
I was in the greenery of the rejecter.
Get ouuuuuuuuuuuut!
I felt like screaming,
but the homeland winked at me:
Hold on!
Tomorrow brings another day.
The Call of Freedom
(Adem Jashari, legendary commander)
On November 28, Independence Day
of the newest state in the world,
right in the heart of Drenica,
a grandson of Azem Galica was born.
As if emerging from the depths of the earth,
his mother gave him the ancient name Adem,
and to bind him together with the soil
another myth like Antaeus
When his mother took him in her arms,
she covered him with the flag
and blessed him with love:
May you fight, my son, for the Albanian nation!
The boy grew up and became a man,
he swore upon the flag,
that alive under the Slav I will not live,
tooth and nail I will fight him.
His rifle gave the battle cry:
Under the Slav I cannot bear slavery.
Even the children grew brave,
they had no fear of Serbia!
Like lightning striking an oak,
he started the war with Serbia,
all of Europe was shaken hard,
as if the whole earth had an earthquake.
The rifle sings in the stone tower,
shells and cannonballs Adem awaits.
Even the children at the windows,
threw firecrackers at the enemy.
The brave man was killed singing,
and swearing to God,
he did not yield the old father's tower,
without them all being covered in blood.
Generation after generation he will be honored,
and history will remember him,
that with Adem Jashari,
even the children waged war.
His rifle gave the battle cry,
to make Serbia go up in smoke,
and let it be known forever and ever,
that this land has the Albanian as its master.
Do not attack Kosovo anymore, Slav!
be careful, you Carpathian!
Adem Jashari never dies,
even in the grave he bathes you in blood.
All Albania
(Tahir Sinani, from Tropojë, martyr of the wars
in Kosovo, Macedonia and Preševo)
Very few words he spoke to his mother,
more tears Sinani shed,
hold on, mother, as custom dictates!
Lucky for us our time has come.
Oh my mother, I have sworn!
That I will die for land and river,
here is Tropojë,
but there is more of Albania.
That field dressed in flames,
is Kosovo, is Albania.
With little schooling, my heart!
You know it well too.
Turned toward the dawn sun,
the brave man sets off full of joy,
he murmurs the centuries of slavery
and a song trailed behind him.
A hundred years we waited for this day,
like the flower waiting for the light,
Halt your step a little, Slav!
We never forget our tradition.
Flower on Stone
(Ismet Jashari)
As soon as the mother opens her eyes on the stone,
she sees her son like a flag,
how can so many flowers sprout there!
The mother wonders with tears in her eyes.
And she rubs her eyes lest she is seeing shadows,
a light from the stars descends on the stone,
it gives a glow to all the martyrs,
one by one to the monuments.
The mother hears words from the sky,
she looks up where the sun speaks to her,
your son has become freedom,
my ray of light for Albania.
You have sons, dear mother!
who stand by this land,
they do not leave you under Serbia,
without being wiped out, old men and children.
And he gave Kosovo its state,
such was his dying wish.
He filled the motherland with flowers,
he had the KLA by his side.
Lightning from Albania
(Skerdilajd Llagami (“Shpendi”)
When Kosovo was burning in flames,
smoke was rising on all sides.
The earth was burning, flames over the towers,
on all four sides the men were fighting.
Hold on, heroic Kosovo!
You have your sons that you raised.
All over Albania,
They will not leave you under Serbia.
Like the lightning that comes from the sky,
so Skerdi came to Kosovo,
like an eagle emerging from the mountain,
so came the boy Lajdi.
Stop, Slav, may you be cursed!
Do not burn my Kosovo!
Stop, Slav, son of a Slav woman!
I am right in front of you, not behind your back.
The fresh blood of the man from Tirana,
reddened the Kosovar earth,
and poppies sprouted from the blood,
Skerdilajdi gave it its due.
Xan, oh flower!
(Murtezan Etemi)
And the battle cry clothed the lands
far and wide it sought brave men,
leaping to his feet in his xhamadan,
the fastest was Murtezan.
He looks at the sky full of clouds,
he fills his heart with wrath,
he fires his rifle once,
through the grass he was crawling.
Face to face with the enemy,
smoke and flames rise to the sky,
he defends life in the trench.
the brave brother, brother Xan.
Oh a bullet fell upon the flower,
Xan the brave seemed to smile,
it pierces the dear mother's soul,
like a drill striking the earth.
And he became the light of Arbëria,
that for centuries sought its freedom,
and brought greenery to the stones,
freedom and flight to the birds.
September 07Maki CanolliButterfly on the Flag
(Basri Canolli)
So many mountains Gollak had that day!
Oh God, how the land held them!
The highest of them all,
was Basri Canolli.
And the oath was raised to the flag,
along with the call of the battle cry,
the eagle too emerges from the flag,
and goes to the aid of that brave man.
The earth was covered full of leaves,
how the whole mountain was shaking,
how song would say to song:
Fly, butterfly Canolli boy.
Basri Canolli gave his oath:
For Kosovo I will fight,
my last bullet I will spend,
until I drive the black Slav away.
Gunshots and flames covered Marec,
tooth and nail two armies,
tears covered his mother,
the boy fell, he fell.
Excerpt from the book: I SELL ICE CREAM TO THE SUN
(Poems for children)
They Are Not Verses, But Ice Cream
Verses and verses,
a pyramid of verses…
But who said they are verses?
No, man! No, man!
They are nothing else,
but ice cream.
Poems and poems,
a meadow of poems…
But who said they are poems?
They are plantations
filled full of vineyards.
Words and words…
not mouthfuls of fishbones.
But who said they are words?
They are milk, man!
for every ice cream,
that from the sun,
drips into the notebook.
Rhymes and rhymes,
a castle of brave men…
But who said they are rhymes?
They are not even candies, man!
at the end of every word,
but they are dances and dances,
in the new concert,
for you, children!
It is not even a book,
just with the New Year's grandfather,
they are heart and soul
for you, oh my children!
The Miller and the Child
The child saw a mill,
by a river that was rushing through it,
the thought crossed his mind,
whether it produced electricity.
The miller, white from the flour,
took the child warmly by the hand:
Come, son, together with grandpa,
let's eat an ice cream together!
This mill, my son!
Is as old as my grandfather,
it does not rest night or day,
it grinds grain, it does not give light.
You are surprised, I know,
why the mill is not a museum,
in this century of technology
that a new age has brought to light.
You are still surprised, but listen!
The ice creams that we eat,
have my flour inside them too,
not just fruit juice and sugar.
Grandpa licks his ice cream,
and gets his mustache dirty
he does not accept, as the child says,
being a teacher, and not a miller.
Barefoot in a valley,
where a river flows with a rush,
Lekë Bardhi's Mill,
grinds flour for my village.
Do Not Kill My Future!
(Against blood feuds)
Do not stop my sun, please!
Let it warm me like all of humanity,
for I am an innocent child,
who knows no enmity.
Do not part me from childhood games!
nor from the school desks,
for I have no fault or responsibility,
that people commit madness.
Do not kill my future!
Do not disfigure my childhood!
Do not challenge this wish of mine!
Do not seek revenge upon me!
There is a God up above,
who sees both me and you,
so if you punish me.
The great Lord will judge you.
Cursed be he, son after son,
the one who first laid down the kanun,
so there would be blood feuds forever,
and graves would open among us.
Mercy for the Children!
They wander every day,
up and down the streets,
hoping that they will find
some dry crust of bread.
They sit at the edges of the road,
barefoot and stripped bare,
with hungry stomachs,
with grimacing faces.
They look at everyone,
who passes right by them,
to see if they have anything for them,
at least a hazelnut.
They are absent from school,
they are distinguished students,
because they have no notebooks,
nor books to learn from.
They are huddled deep,
but they seek justice,
while their wailing
reaches all the way to the government.
But lucky that we others
are not called the government,
and our hearts and souls weep
which is why we help them.
The Poor Man's Prayer
The poor man's soul prays
prays with much despair,
Great Lord, I pray to you:
Give me food too!
Have mercy, oh Lord!
May I have better days!
May we have food and footwear!
Like all of humanity.
Why do others, oh Lord!
have so many things,
while I from hunger
cannot even sleep.
Soften the soul of humanity
to give life to the poor man,
whoever gladdens his heart,
make a place for them in paradise!
Winter is coming too, great Lord!
with snow, frost and blizzard,
the prayer freezes in my mouth,
why do I have no right to live.
Albanian Girls
When you meet them
the girls from Prishtina,
they look beautiful to you
just like falcons.
Whenever you meet them
the girls from Tirana,
they are very mischievous
swift as fairies.
And the other girls,
who are from Gostivar,
have chestnut eyes
and hair like gold.
If you go down a bit
over there by Presheva,
from the beauty the girls have
you say, I felt them in my heart.
Also in Çamëri
the Albanian girls,
so beautifully they
dance the dances there.
If you climb a bit
in the district of Malësia,
the girls are like roe deer
they look, from their beauty.
Wherever you may go
throughout our lands,
the girls are beautiful
they look like eagles.
Through Albania
All roads lead me
through Albania,
I know them well by heart
like in geography.
Near Gjergji's horse,
there in Tirana,
my brain was grinding the wars
of our ancestors.
Deep in the south, in the city
with stones and no gardens,
Kadare was writing the novel
“The Three-Arched Bridge”.
In the north, Fishta and Migjeni
were returning to the sorrow
with “The Highland Lute”
and “The Poem of Misery”.
The great Azem Shkreli
in Shkrel of Rugova,
was drinking cold water
at the Spring of Martin Bogë.
In Pogradec,
near the Lake, alas!
Lazgush was coughing
from his old age.
In Cercë of Istog,
for the light of freedom,
Rugova clutched in his hand
the project of independence.
In ancient Tepelena,
Ali Pashë Tepelena,
was sung about in the song
of the singer Lena.
In legendary Prekaz
Adem Jashari said from the tower:
Serbia wants only bullets,
Do not surrender, men!
In Gllogjan of Peja,
in the Tower of Resistance,
The Haradinaj Martyrs
were walling up the castle of the besa.
How I Made My Albania
The Sh I took from the eagle in flight,
to build a nest in my soul.
The Q I took in June from the cherry tree,
to make the cheeks of the youth red.
The I I took the next day from Illyria,
to learn the roots of Dardania.
The P the spring left early on the flowers,
to make nectar for bees, not just pampering.
The Ë dripped from the eye of the baby without a mother's breast,
so the rivers would bring sheep's milk.
The R with rain from the clouds somehow fell into my hand,
so the child would sleep long, not just an hour.
The other I for the name of my motherland,
I found in the primer while learning to read and write.
The A I kneaded well from the soil of the motherland,
to make Albania with the hand of Skanderbeg.
The First Teacher of the Primer
(Mehmet Gjevori)
Who brought us out of the darkness?Who brought light for us forever?Who came to the aid of the Kosovars?The first teacher Mehmet Gjevori.
Bacë Mehmeti with many friendsleft Elbasan for thirty years,
towards Kosovo he set off,to spread the light of Albanianism.
Day and night with the Primer in hand,sometimes in the village, sometimes in the city,
a daytime torch of education,
the very first was bacë Mehmet.
His heart rejoiced,when the youth were educated,
in every corner education spread,
the people laughed with joy.
Generations for centuries will remember himthe synonym of the Primer,
the most precious veteran,bacë Mehmeti from Elbasan.
The Primer, the Gold with Stars
The Primer is the first book,
from which all knowledge begins,
with so much gold that it holds inside,
all wealth is measured.
The letters that it has,
the other books have taken,
some took them more easily,
some with much clamor.
The gold of the Primer
is gold by the oka,
but only when the children,
put it deep into their heads.
On every page of the Primer,
there is a star,
with every graphic of the letters,
they illuminate a forest.
The sun descends there too,
as the teacher of life,
ties the threads of light,
pours the honey of the bee.
