Herё unё kalurova,
Herё kali kaluroi mbi mue,
Nё rrugё pёr nё Madrid,
Pёr nё Madrid, pёr nё Madrid,
Deri nё Madrid.
Nё njё kiosk, oh nё nji kiosk
Shitnin hamburgerё,
Shitnin hamburgerё,
Dhe e bleva njё,
Dhe njё e bleva,
Aty ndёrmjet dy riskash,
Pashё Lorkёn e mjerё,
Tё mjerё Lorkёn e pashё,
Qeshej, buzёqeshej i therun nё bajoneta.
Nё hamburger Lorkёn e pashё:
I thashё tungjatjeta!
E mbllaqita fort buzёqeshjen e tij,
Tё tjerat kalit ia dhashё.
Lorkёn e pashё.
I mbёrthyem jo nё kryq, por nё bajoneta.
Dhunohej kudo çdo varg i tij,
(Nga çdo poetuc-salepxhi,
E Ali-Kasap-McDonalld-qoftexhi!)
Nё Madritё ishte terr – s’kishte dritё!
Kali im Ati im paskёsh qenё Piktor,
S’kishte andrru me u ba toreador,
As me u martu me tё Marten,
As me u ethё me t’Enjten,
As me premtu tё Premten,
As me shty tё Shtunen,
As kurrё jo Mё(r)kurrё:
Hanёn nё Diell me e pjekё
Si kulaç nё furrё!
Dёshironte, andrronte, me e pikasё Picasson,
On son, on son, pika, pika, Picasson...
Gjethen e paskёsh zanё njё gjumё,
Dhe kalehtas paskёsh ra nё lumё,
E lumi, ka dashё fati, me qenё e Picassos imagjinatё,
Qё nё njё pёlhurё tё bardhё me ngre shtat.
Im atё, Ati im, Kali im,
Dёgju kishte, o Zot pa djallёzi,
O Djall pa zotёsi,
Se Pikaloshi Pikaman Pikarrosh Picasso,
Qё tё sos me pika, pika e pika si tё Picassos,
Pikturu kishte – kishte pikturu,
Portrete kuajsh – shumё porterete kuajsh,
Dhe dofarё bythё buajsh.
Por, o Zot Pordhaç!
Kur kali im e pa autopor(dh)tretin e vet
Nё Guernikё,
U shkund e u mund e s’mujti me ikё,
E pa autoportretin e klithmёs sё vet...
Im Atё. Ati im.
Kali im.
E pa.
U shkri.
Si loti u ba.
U derdh.
Pikoi si dhembja nё dhembje.
U pёrqafu me tym. Tym u bâ.
U zhduk. Zhdukje u ba.
Kali i Guernikёs mbet mё dёshmu.
Se unё kam pasё Atё.
Se Ati im apo im Atё ka pasё klithje
Dhe asht ba klithje
Prej gverrash
E prej Gverrnikash.
Pikonte pika qё tё sos e Picassos
Pikaste pikёllimin,
Pikonte dhembje,
Pikё, pikё, pikё,
Qё tё sos, tё sos, tё sos
Pika e Picassos.
Pika Picasso dhe pika Gverrnika
Pikasa vetёm gverra. Vetёm Gverrnika.
I AS A KNIGHT - poem
Once I rode
Once the horse rode me
All the way to Madrid
To Madrid, to Madrid
Up to Morelight.
In a kiosk, oh, in a kiosk
They were selling hamburgers
They were selling hamburgers
And I bought one,
And one I bought,
There between two slices I saw poor Lorca,
Sad Lorca I saw,
Laughing, smiling, butchered with bayonets.
In the hamburger I saw Lorca:
I said: I wish you have long life!
I chewed noisily his smile,
What remained I gave it to my horse
I saw Lorca
Nailed not to the cross but to the bayonets
Every verse of him was being raped
(From every poetaster-salepseller
And Ali-Butcher-Mc-Donald-kebab maker!)
In the Morelight was dark – there were no lights.
My horse, my father had been an Artist
He hasn’t dreamed of becoming a toreador
And not to marry Tuesday,
And not to make love with Thursday,
And not to promise at Friday,
And not to push at Saturday,
And for sure not, never ever at Wednesday
to bake the Moon in the Sun as the cake in the oven!
He was wishing, dreaming to spot Picasso
On son, on son, I spotted, I spotted, Picasso
The leaf fell asleep
And gently fell to the river
And the river, happened to be the fantasy of Picasso
Grown up in a white canvas.
My horse, my father,
Had heard, O God with no evil,
O Devil with no good will,
That the freckled speckled Picasso
Which depletes you from the spots and dots, like Picasso’s spots
Had pictured – pictured had,
The horse’s portraits – many horse’s portraits in canvases
And some buffalo’s assess.
But o my Farter God
When my horse saw his autoportrait
In Guernica
He was shaken and defeated and he could not run away
He saw the autoportrait of his own scream...
My father. Father my.
My horse.
He saw.
He melted.
He became a tear.
He dropped.
He dropped like the pain into the pain.
He embraced the smoke. He became a smoke.
He disappeared. He became the disappearance.
The horse of Guernica remained to witness
That I have had a father
That my father – father my - have had a scream
And he had turned into the scream
From guerras
And from Guernicas
It was dropping the drop of Picasso, that wracks
It was spotting the sadness
It was dotting the pain
The dot, the spot that ruins
The Picasso’s dot, the spot of Guernica
I spotted only the guerras, only Guernicas.
By Agim Morina