Ardita Jatru writes

One day we will get on the train

One day

we will get on the train

We will sit silently inside windows

in drawn faces and aging bodies

without shoulders

and will wait whistle arrival at the station

and then detrain out of sight

and move to a place with soft soil

we will find a small house as a body

and lie down

our heads on a pillow of stone,

with empty pockets.

At that moment we will fly over the open roof

a flock of dreams in colors that we did not apprehend.

We will lengthen our eyesight,

but we will feel like a weak plant

with curved body

that is ready to surrender to the land. 

--tr. Laureta Petoshati 

 

 Over the Town -- Marc Chagall

Ardita Jatru writes

My passing

Twenty-five years of my passing, 

I took away with me what I could, 

what I couldn’t take I left behind.

Chamomile field wasn’t handpicked by anyone else

and some mimosa trees in Students΄ City remained without grasping.

(In March, I used to prepare the most beautiful bouquets)

There was left behind that little child with blond hair

at the door holding that paperboard:

Mihal Grameno Street, No. 6.

God's hand remained in the air

and two eyes looking at the back through the bursts of tears.

All of those were taken away by the river.

I did not even have time to cry.

Twenty-five years of my passing,

what I took away with me

I am keeping it on the palm of my hand

by eating my heart out.

What I left behind

was a girl who became a woman.

--tr. Laureta Petoshati  

 

 Early Morning In Tirana -- Ylli Haruni

Ardita Jatru writes

Dezi

For the first time I got drunk off

of one glass of screw driver at Crystal Café.

It was served to me by Dezi, the buxom waitress

who was talking and hinting jokes with dirty words. 

She was marvelous.

You're not from here, she told me that night,

so I treat you girl with another glass.

I drank the first glass to the health of my boyfriend,

the second to the health of Dezi,

the third ... I got lost.

And ward boys stood on the steps of Crystal Café.

They were, with freak nicknames,

Boulevard boys

who lured high school girls

and marvelous Dezi,

who was shaking her hips when walking in and out

with confidence

that the boys will enter in to drink some screw driver.

Dezi doesn’t serve over there anymore,

And neither the Crystal Café nor nicknamed boys

who longed for Dezi still exist

(I longed for her too)

But they left some laughs to the stairs

and some inebriation by screw driver.

If you see the buxom waitress in the town

send to her the greetings from the girl

who wasn’t from that county

(of course she would not remember me)

and say to her,

I intend to make an application to the mayor

to put up a statue

dedicated to marvelous Dezi

who served love drinks

talking and hinting jokes with dirty words,

there, on the groundsill

of the former Crystal Café,

with tray in hand,

forever

as my first insobriety.

 --tr. Laureta Petoshati  

 

 Earth Mother -- Richard Lindner