“Beautiful! Who is the author?” It was written beneath some verses she had just posted. It was Professor Asllan Bami, one of the best-known professors in her town, not only for his professional skills, but also for his high standards. A proper, quiet and wise man, who enjoyed respect throughout the town. One of the first literature teachers in that town, and the students loved him, just as it is true that he enjoys the respect of generations even today. A man honoured by all. She was so moved by this appreciation from Professor Asllan that she began to tear up. She remembered her childhood, those early writings at a young age, when she would wake up from her sleep at night and write, and the next day she would give them to her literature teacher, Izota Avdyli, to look at. She remembered all those years she spent over books and writings, passing in silence for others, while her passion for writing grew ever stronger. Surprisingly, time did not extinguish her spark for writing; she kept it as the most precious thing nature had given her. The passion did not fade over the years, time did not fade anything of what had appeared in her childhood, so much so that even now, years later, she stays up late into the night over her writings. “Professor Asllan, I wrote it, but I forgot to put my name!” she replied, as if caught in the wrong. “I didn’t know you wrote so beautifully and with such spiritual delicacy!” the professor replied below. “If this poem had the name of a well-known author, there would be a noticeable reaction,” the professor wrote. “Yes, I understand you, because sometimes we stop at the surface without getting to the core,” she replied. “Just like with designer clothes, where you only pay for the designer’s name. Yes, this happens everywhere,” she concluded. She thanked the literature teacher for his appreciation and, through the tears that were blinding her vision, she sat down to write to him, explaining the odyssey of how she started writing in her childhood. From that day on, Professor Asllan, in his modesty, followed all her writings with great pleasure, but also with a professor’s pride, because she was a student of that school where he had imparted knowledge in the nobility of his honoured and beloved profession, and it was exactly this that made him respected by the generations that had passed through his hands.
Margarita Stoja.
