Elegy on Light


And the light has emerged, each of its rays
Breaking and shattering like a crystal flute upon the rocks
Swelling in colours all its own.

Forth pours the light, rising
Like dough from sombre troughs.

Moist is the soil, overcast the sky,
At brookside gorge ghostly figures of soldiers
Tousled by rosy fingers.

Streams long gone dry
Gurgle now in a rave of murmurs.

And the light has emerged,
Bales, their golden hay tumbling gently
’gainst the tiny cottage windows.

Hastening, the sunlight touches,
Hastens and touches,
Kisses the bell at dawn
With its painted lips.

With sobs of apprehension, I gush:
“Praise be to God for the light
Given unto us, greater than the Illuminator himself!”

Wave after wave, wave after wave,
Its licks with its tongues the body of Aphrodite,
Sweeping night away
Until the sun has seized the summits.


[Elegji për dritën. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie.]



Orpheus


Your tears – so well disguised –
Enveloped and finely fitted
Within the curved peelings of an onion,
That sacrificed – alas – its very essence
Hidden in the core
When it was stabbed by the gleaming blade
That minced your tender heart
Sleepy with fictive erudition.

Eurydice’s tears in the kitchen
Have no source
But you,
The only lachrymogenic ingredient
In the prosaic family salad.

(Moscow, 2001)


[Orfeu. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie.]





Angels in Crisis

… I had just returned from the last war. My hands were longing for the plough as I headed for the shed. I pushed open the door and, when I got used to the dark and the damp that reeked of mould and mildew, I was overcome by the vision before me – a bale of angels sneezing in the corner. One had swollen glands and couldn’t swallow, another gasped and struggled for breath. The other anaemic angels stammered in low voices to explain that one of their number had fallen tragically in love with the curved blade of the coarse-toothed saw on the other wall, but it had shown no interest in him. The third angel was all in a flutter trying desperately to say something, but failed because a fourth angel was squeezing his oesophagus for fun as the poor fellow gaped and belched for a full two to three minutes. A sorry sight they were indeed, sallow and covered in fungus, all huddled in a corner with less space than the sheaves of rye. I poked at them with my pitchfork and threw them out into the sun. Then, telling the farm hand to give them a cup of hot tea and some biscuits, I cautiously inquired if they could remember the goal of their forgotten mission.

(Tirana, 1 January 2002)


[Engjëj në krizë. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie.]