1-
The
Silent journey
Sailing on a boat, through a stormy sea
we distinguish the gaze following us from the shore
frightened of the fate that pushes us toward the
wild waves, swollen with blood
down to the perturbed centuries
to the strange roots holding us in stasis
rotating around the satellite that extinguishes in
the air
to the moment of abyss that separate life from death
of the lost illusion.
Again we wonder, trying to understand
the attempt in half dreams
on the wrinkled waves of tomorrow
under the mane of a horse that runs in a gust of
wind,
through the nostrils of air
It is halted by the tether that pulls it
the footprints of the half of gallop are left
on the bank where the seafoam sleeps
and the Circes eyes are dissolute
Run, liberated from this rising like a mirage
breath and shape of this hectic darkness
like an everlasting song of this echo that attracts
our sorrow
the finish line
walking with youthful steps
and the grey aging through snowfall.
2-
Is
not enough ...
It's raining here,
the sky is always bronze
and the steps knock on the empty road
in thousands of feet,
without the melody of your heels,
of that timber who use to hear
as music
and the view that gave our journey distance,
not those of 100-years loneliness of Garcia
but not even love
in the cholera time (covid)
just a forgotten charm across the wind
and a journey that began
without goodbye!
I'm already used to it
with the sudden losses of the season
who run to unclothe the memory
first from alienated leaves of the green
then to the yellow,
violet and the reddish of Autumn,
but without your eyes
those bright thousands of suns
and hatch a light of life
and never I got learned;
that the next day
would wake up at the doorstep of a world
shinning and whispering of a silent forest.
Is not enough the cherry garden
nor the shadows of Moon
at the mirror of trunks of the Neruda's garden,
nor confusions,
nor the Eden that changed the flow of resemblance,
but simply a closeness
an overpass to the crazy world,
where the sad look of a woman
turned into the tear of my pain.
3-
My
Cypress
Every time that snow starts falling
I don’t know why I come to you
might be a promise;
the silent exchange of our stories
Mine are simpler
there’s no noise, no glory that you can listen to.
yours, I don’t know,
but I see the prints on your skin
and believe too many hands have touched you
they have prayed and asked for more love
met with a bowing of the head and a Namaste
that you hold deep in your soul.
Here I am again today
you know, when the snowflakes start I will be here
I see the prints of the running wind as well
not those of the wind’s reindeer, because they are
fare away
but just the pain that we feel, you and me
when wildly winds rock the top of the tree
shaking off the snow to your shoulders
to shelter more birds
As for me…I am shaken by silent memory
of people that I unconditionally love
My cypress,
there is no end to the odes and songs
that come to me
along with this cold air
which can’t ever strip your green joy
as it murmurs in your branches,
as for me, I do not need more than a greeting when I
come
always unspeakably understanding each other
you, still in your world of old love reposing
I, again forgotten on my bench
I need to lit a cigarette and see through the smoke,
the reappearance of what is gone
whereas I am stealing your body
and take it with me, to my very last station.
4-
Conversation
with Charles Baudelaire
You always came in the same way
sometimes as a ghost
stuck in the grey matter of the brain
other times as a bad flower’s blossom
even as it appears in dark colors
shows the greatness of a painting of a sea
the white sails of a ship that comes and goes away
from the bewildered and confused sight of the eyes
or the lily of the lake shining
on the body of life
body and soul sorrow endeavored
devils and angels
painted centuries ago by masters on the chapels.
I am sure that your sight is fixed at these same
church
with different appearances
you were crazy about horses’ manes
at the cattle fair
whereas I, get caught amongst the traffic, at the
same cross road
at the same cobblestone plaza that look like Cadmus
teeth
those letters
what you murmured until the last breath
as the most glorious soul of sorrow
that never got the peace…!
Note: Today I was at the same church that Charles
Buadelaire used to go and lit a remembrance candle for his soul.
Translated
into English by Merita Paparisto
Agron
Shele was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet,
Albania. Is the author of the following
literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (Novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (Novel),
“Wrong Image” (Novel) , “Innocent Passage” (Poetry), Whiste stones ( poetry)
RIME SPARSE -Il suono di due voci poetiche del Mediterraneo (Poesie di Agron
Shele e Claudia Piccinno), La mia Musa
(“Libri di-versi in diversi libri” – Italy, 2020); murmure d’ un autre monde
(poetry), “Ese-I and Ese-II) ” . Mr. Shele is also the coordinator of
International Anthologies: “Open Lane- 1,” “Pegasiada , Open Lane- 2 , ATUNIS
magazine ( Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )” and Atunis Galaxy Antholgy 2018, 2019,
2020. He is winner of some international literary prizes.
Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers
Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry
and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”.
