from Memories Pretend to Sleep

Autumn Afternoon

The sun was setting just as I’d finished cleaning
the offices of a two-story building,
ending another day of work
near the dumpster
with the last bag of trash I tossed away.
I was alone with my exhaustion.
You could hear nobody’s footsteps.
Somewhere between my exhaustion and a faded dream,
I thought I was lost,
when suddenly in the gloaming
the flight of the wild geese—
I raised my head.
Their white bellies
glided through the numerous hues
the firmament had stolen from the season.
In an instant, exhaustion and rest became one.
The green, blue, pink, amber-gold hues
and the sounds calling from the birds’ beaks
carried me toward the dream
that never dies.
How hard it is to believe
that after a tiring, monotonous day
which you forget in a night’s sleep,
dusk opened a window,
so I could see
what my memory
safekeeps.



The Boys of My Street

Their bodies intoxicated with fresh air.
They grow twice as fast through triumphs,
marveling at nature
and water gurgling down the mountain.
The boys of my street
used to return home
like warriors after battle
when dusk fell,
tired from their games,
setting traps in the fields,
hunting birds with slingshots.
They delighted
in the life of the bird quivering in their hands
until it spent.
Satisfied
when over a bonfire
of sticks and whatever else they’d gathered
the soft flesh roasted as cinders scorched.
Delighted, the boys of my street
savored the moist meat,
chucking left and right on the green grass
delicate bones soft as the feathers.
Nobody ever queried
the sky above, enfolding, growing dark.
The sky waited for its residents,
for the music of wings
to sound on high.
The boys of my street
by accident, while playing,
became bandits.



Hometown Ties

Every night, I’m somewhere else,
and I forget the roof I’m under.
Locked in some kind of cell
without handcuffs, without prison guards.
Every night, I’m somewhere else,
and I forget the roof I’m under.
The big house, the loud noises;
its voices hold me hostage.

 

Footprints That Talk

A head for a head!
So would a thief absolve his soul
since the days of Ali Pashë Tepelena.
At times he had a nickname,
at times his fame preceded him
like strange red greenbacks three hours away.
He never slept without a loaded gun under his pillow.
Without it, he’d never go on the road “to hunt.”

In the five-star Hotel Arts in Barcelona,
where worldwide famous celebrities vacation
the likes of Mick Jagger, Eric Clapton, Cindy Crawford,
a few years ago the grand theft of the century took place.
Some general had precious objects stolen.
Halal! some said. They’ve taken the rich man’s excess.
Haram! said others when the police caught the thief.

According to legend, the god Pan died in Butrint.
The nature spirits wailed
so shepherds everywhere would hear
of the tragic loss. Who would protect the forests,
the flowers in years to come?
To this day
the axe of a thief flattens them and won’t stop.

Insidious night, taciturn.
The moon hidden in the dark sky.
Not even the leaves in the chestnut forest stirred.
Man slept deeply in his first sleep.
Thieves, as if carrying their footfalls in their arms,
stole six sheep from my grandfather’s barn.

My grandfather’s howl pierced the dawn
waking up the entire village.
Under a different sky his heart was trembling.
How would he feed his children now?
Those six sheep, the only wealth, were his God.
May the thief’s hand be blessed! some said to console him.

A thief covers his tracks, but they still talk.
And only God knows if one profits from stolen goods.
After a short time, my grandmother died.
Twice the family was impoverished.
A jinxing hand, like a strong wind that takes the roof off,
stole joy from that house
leaving poverty behind as an inheritance.



The House Among the Pines

This is a quiet house, a hundred years old.
Behind closed blinds, the rooms stilled as if by endless sleep,
perhaps recalling the past by the fireplace,
where ash from winters long gone has grown cold.
Locked doors, moths everywhere, dry wings in every corner,
on couches, in cold rooms seeking warmth from the morning light.
Spiders, unreeling filament,
weave in sheer freedom elaborate, transparent traps.
Still life on the walls and portraits of writers in black and white
from centuries ago.
The portrait of Walt Whitman facing north
where, in sunlight, his beard and hair glisten down to the roots.
I hear a phone ring, as if they’re calling me from another time.
They announce
that I have won a cruise ticket to the Caribbean islands.
Spam of the moment, business from the 21st century. I don’t answer it.
I quiet myself to be attuned to the house.
Few friends visit this house, and then rarely.
The way it keeps hundred-year-old stories hidden,
it will also keep the story of the bird that visited me once,
strangely so close to my face
as I stood on the fire escape watching the half-lights of the evening.
The next day, the house broke its silence,
the messenger had brought along a ray of light that defied the blinds.
I made an effort not to drag my foot though in pain from chronic arthritis.
All around the buzz of bees, butterflies, dragonflies, wasps
who’d made their nests on the roof.
Bats came early, before dawn,
like thieves who cover their tracks.
The house broke the silence spun of meaninglessness
the day the hummingbird king called on me.