Hena brenda gjoksit

My grandmother was a minuscule old woman, forever covering her hair with a white head-scarf, the tips of which she always tucked in her grey apron over her black, long dress. She was shrinking. Or we were growing fast. Her somewhat round face was like dough-bread, full of oval lines that gave the impression she was constantly smiling. She smelled like bread too. She had a slow way of walking, almost duck-like, keeping her head straight up, her eyes always exploring the ground she was walking on. But usually, she would sit on the divan outside of the house when the weather was warm and watch us kids play in the front yard. She would cross her legs in a yoga-like position with an amazing ease, and rosary in her hands, would start talking to herself or to the many people that were dead by now, including her husband. Only when the game we were playing would call her attention, she would yell out our names for us to stop it. That is if she remembered our names. She’d start yelling the name of her husband, my grandfather, then the names of all her sons, starting from the oldest, then if she got lucky she’d get our names right. We knew this. We’d keep playing our game, which consisted mainly in who could hang longer from the highest persimmon tree branch, our amusement doubled by this sudden entertainment. Beqirooooooo! Ganiooooo! Meroooooo! Feridoooooo! Pllumoooo! Pause… Saimiroooo! Blerimooooo! Finally…! Her voice would be weak with exhaustion by the time she got us to stop, and we would run up to her and cover her with kisses in her dough cheeks. She’d smile for real then and would put her dry, bony hands on top of our sweaty heads, caressing the unruly hair with great patience.

I’d wake up very early in the morning, when the sky was violet birthing the new day, and I’d walk along the seashore, floating in that peaceful still of nature, pierced now and then by some unseen birds’ songs. The air would be still cool from its embrace with the now retreating night, and the sky would be low and heavy with the coolness of the air, enveloping me and my slow walk just as it was intended to do for thousands of years before my birth. Then I would stop by the old bunkers, old since WWII, half immersed in sand, their grayish-green contours resembling from afar to a motionless, wounded warrior that had fallen on the sand of this bay straight from an ancient legend.

It was there where I kept my fishing gear, tucked in a corner between the concrete walls of the bunkers. The fishing gear was not much altogether, just a line, some hooks and a big glass jar filled with dirt, water and worms that I had dug out from the banks of the nearby river.

I’d stop between the bunkers and then rest my sight upon the vastness of the sea. It was quiet, like the freeze-frame of a perfect flatness, a never-ending mirror where now, I was sure, the sky would look at itself while changing colors and belonging officially to the day. As the sun would rise higher and higher over the bay, animal voices would fill the air with their echoes coming from the forest and the forest itself would become green and serious about it. With its straight pine trees, and filling the bay corner to corner next to the sand, the forest looked like an army of strange beings that had flown over during the night from the other side of the mountain and then had come to a screeching halt right beside the sand, amazed by the sea. All the back trees waited patiently now for their turn to come at the first row and be able to watch.

This was enough for me to get inspired and get the line into the sea. Sometimes I’d just throw the line by hand as far as I could and some mastery was needed for that. I was getting better at it. But in days like this when the sea was flat and oily with sleep, I’d put the line between my teeth and swim with great pleasure as far as the line could go. After dropping the line, I’d turn toward the shore and see far away the shoreline laying there as a white snake, with the bunkers like some big lump at one end of it, as if the snake had just swallowed a small animal. To escape this image, I’d roll on my back and look at the sky instead, floating on the sea water. The sea-water had thinned out as the day settled on it, and filled with an unexplainable joy, I’d start swimming fast toward the shore, ready to catch me some big fish, tasting it already in my mind…

Përfund

Mbasdite shiu shurdhoi qytetin

Fëmijët ranë në koma

            (dhe kjo ndoshta ishte zgjidhja më e mirë)

Pastaj rrufetë.

Rashë në burgun e këtij gjumi

                        i torturuar e i friksuar

nga dritat e befta dhe pasiguria

            e pashpjegueshme e vendimeve

të marra nga të tjerët në ndërgjegjien time

Por gjithçka e ka një fund

Dhe çdo njeri një fillim

                        të ri

Cdo njeri është i aftë për të harruar

Dhe kjo është një mrekulli

            Më e madhe se shpresa.

Përfund

Shumë njerëz dhunohen me një kothere bukë

E floriri shkëlqen mbi gjoksin e saj

E asaj që kryen funksionin e dorëmbajtësit

Për të dënuarit që ende hezitojnë

Por të gjithë e dinë

shtëpinë në fund të kësaj rruge

Ku ndahet njeriu nga njerëzia

Në një përzgjedhje farnash e lulesh majëholla

Në një ditë portokalle, plot gjak e pasion.

Një kothere bukë e ndan vuajtjen

Prej shkëlqimit të floririt mbi gjoksin e saj.

Në qytetin e çelikut

Mirësevjen në qytetin e çelikut

Do re mi fabrika

Sol la situatat

                        e njerëzve

Me gjysëm jete në pranverë

e gjysëm vdekje në dimër

Me autobuza të hutuar

të shtyrë nga kurioziteti ynë

                        për lëvizjen.

Bashkarisht, barbarisht

Gratë lajnë ndjenjat

            një herë në javë

E na mbajnë pastër

Pa dëshiruar asgjë të re

Mirësevjen në qytetin e çelikut.

Kromi shkëlqen diku tjetër.

Floriri mbahet i mbyllur.

e kauçuku bashkon kontinentet.

Autobuzët ngrenë pluhur

            deri në dritare

e nuk shihet fare

sakati që marros

            gratë me hipertension

“Je me fat o shoku jonë”

Vonon por nuk harron.

Prapë se prapë vonon.

Koha në qytetin e çelikut.