1
Today I want to weave a song,With a soul burnt to ashes,For many years have passed far away,Like migrating birds, flock after flock.But with the only difference,That birds depart and return,That every year they see their nest,And never forget their homeland.But we are not even like birds,Though it is true we have no feathers,But we have a soul and we have a mind,Not to forget our own land.It was a cold season in those times,When your love used to ache...But we had to leave without fail,To water the life we had left.We took our little birds with us,And we left our nest behind.And we fought through the years,For a single ray of light.And from battle to battle,For life to solve the equation.We bruised our heads and bruised our hands,Searching for the future.We did not wait for the tree of life,We watered it with blood and water,Late to sleep, early we rose.We lost ourselves in life,Sometimes tumbling down, sometimes climbing up,But we always looked at the clouds.We saw them as seagulls,Cotton fluff when the pear tree blooms.We would gather them and put them together,As both a pillow and a fan,Whenever we slept outside.Other times as a blanket,So we wouldn't freeze under a shadow.We closed our eyes, covered by clouds,Searching for it in our dreams,Our blessed homeland.
2
The cloud would turn into a horse,It would carry us and our longing.The thing we desired,The dream we loved best,The horse would fly over the seas,With troubles and sorrows on its back.And without even realizing it ourselves,The cloud would turn us into kings.All day long in exile,All night long a king in dreams.Over Dhëmbel and Trebeshinë,Where the wind and the blizzard blow,Where the scent of clover comes.Where a sprig of mountain tea sways,When the month of May spreads its wings...And the valley drowns in the fragrance,Of sage and tender grass.Oh, the partridge in the grove,Plays the flute with all its soul,Or is it a shepherd's pipe?The blackbird with its yellow beak,Begins to pour out its talent,Leaves and petals hold their breath,To listen to the singer.One falls silent, the other begins,The forest breeze lulls them to sleep.Tap tap tap goes a woodpecker,One in an oak or even a fig tree,Has set up its stage elsewhere,To clean the tree for us.And the small-berried ivy,Embraces the oak on the hill.The two of them never complain,Two twins that cannot be parted.Both with their roots deep in the earth,Like brothers and like friends,They turn their grapes into wine,And drink in winter when the wind blows.Then the leaves wave their wings,And shake the snow from their shoulders,But all their lives in battle,They do not know the word emigration.From a hollow the bee appears,With its light wings and legs.It refuses to have a hive,In this newly arrived spring.It seeks and stays in nature,Where the roe deer, as it enters,Stretches its lips to the roots of the plane tree,Where the spring comes rushing down.Nearby a chirping,Makes the whole meadow echo,The bee, the nightingale, and the roe deer,From the bush the rabbit emerged,It raised its ears like sorrel leaves,Perhaps to look at the clouds?Together with the tortoise and the goat,They are listening to the melody,Here no one disturbs their peace.The fox has poked its snout out,It is night and the stars are shining,But it does not go towards the village,Not because it is holding a grudge,But it knows, it has been many years,Since a ray of light has appeared there,It has no cunning to pour out,Beneath the yellow light of the moon.It knows, it doesn't have a rooster's brain,The houses, the coops are empty.It takes the steep slope downwards,It has realized it itself,This life has grown harder for it.Hunger has gnawed at it too,Ever since man became a fox...
3
And we wander over the valleys,Like the carpet in that fairy tale,We take a seat on a plane tree branch,Where beside it with song and joy,The roar of a river awakens us.Oh, it is my beloved Vjosa,Babbling and rippling wave upon wave,Like an ancient, sweet-spoken old man,It rushes downwards with health and joy,Dashing its body against the rocks.Perhaps it does not want to leave,Sometimes it smiles, sometimes it grows angry,And so, with its nerves on edge,It calms down by striking the banks.It too has been left all alone,Loneliness, loneliness everywhere, all around.Where are the boys and those girls,With their arms spread wide, stroke by stroke,Whose bodies it licked every summer,And grew drunk as if it had drunk wine?And it gathered strength and gathered life,Waves of joy leapt high into the air,Reaching for the clouds with wings of waves.And it held within its soul and heart,A boy's strength, and a woman's beauty,And it roared along its bed,From happiness day and night.Where are its caves now,When the boys used to come in flocks,And dive into the deep waters,Like beautiful, gentle trout?And forgive me God, it was this river,When the girls came like petals,And stretched their bodies over the foam,Even the mountains bowed their heads behind them.And their bodies slipped and glided,From the wave that lulled them,And the eel died of jealousy.Here, right here at this bridge,The boys would gather piles of stones,And throw them far, far away,Laughing and shouting one after another,Their calls in chorus down the valley,The echo would change their melody,They sent out shouts, they received happiness.And the sun speaks over the mountain,With a hand of light it scatters the clouds,And the flowers bloom, and the bees dance.And the riverbed takes on another color,Like a joyful, laughing face.And the bed of the Vjosa begins to sway,Like girls when they walk and swish their skirts.And the rays slipping between them,Make it more beautiful than a dream.And what do I care for precious stones,That hang on necks and around hands,This beauty alone is enough,A dreamy and dappled sight,To make you feel like a king your whole life,Even if you have no dollars in your wallet.Without a wallet we came and we shall leave,When we all turn off the light of life,The wise old man said, in this world,He who leaves happy, leaves with full hands.A little further on in flocks and flocks,From the middle of the river a flock of doves,Cleave the sky and climb high,Like a line of a poem clothed in art,And one of them, as if gone mad,Steps to the front row and becomes the title.Where has the world seen such a poem,Doves for letters, doves for stanzas,Believe me, I am not playing with words,Such a poem exists only over the Vjosa.
4
You little chapel, covered with stone tiles,Like our poor mothers hand in hand,Please take me in your hands once more,Just as you did when I was little and you baptized me.And let the oak tree lean over us,To whisper to us with the words of God.For your history of 300 years of history,Only that ancient old man here knows.The others came, they came and they left,Some kissed your hand, some tore your dowry.And the oak took them and recorded their names,For the time has come to tell them today.And I remember you, so tired, hunched over,But filled with love, filled with peace.I saw you when they pulled the scarf from your head,And threw your beautiful icons into pits.I was little and no one saw me,When I kissed your icon, and took it in my arms.When I hid a smaller one in my chest,And ran home like a wounded bird.And since that time, a full 53 years,We grew in years, we grew in life.We also took the long road through the world,Sometimes I washed you with kisses and sometimes with tears,You, the only mother I could never part from.True, we rebuilt you, we made you new,But you need to be with us.And we come and receive your blessing,And we fly away like birds into the blue...But even though we fly into skies and seas,We take your blessing and the cross with us.I look at you in the late nights,When you speak sweetly to me from your icon.And in those moments I remember my whole life,Neither asleep nor awake was I ever alone.And winters with the world, in the seasons of the world,We passed them together, we saw the dawn together.Where I could not manage, with madmen around,To overcome them, I put you in front of me.And you took me by the hand like a child,Over freezing winds, over layers of snow,You paved the way for me to walk in peace,Even though the ghouls shrieked from the clouds.And we took our steps, with measured care,Having the help of your light close by.And we made the journey, my Saint Mary,Under sun and moon, and without prejudice.Our hair turned white, our faces wrinkled,But never in our lives did anyone call us a goblin.We made our soul a meadow, our hand a worthy field,Where we ate together, we invited others too.We also built houses, new and strong,With human values, with great gates,In their rooms, on a wall or in a corner,Hangs the icon of your blessing.I have left and I have come, I have seen you rarely,I have left in sorrow, I have come with longing.But you, dear mother, with icons and stones,You never broke your little motherly heart.And when you missed me, you wept without a sound,With a smile on your lips you always welcomed and saw me off.That is why I always kiss you, when I leave and when I come,My only deity in the world!
