Translations - Perkthime
J.L. Borges
Poems - Poezi


To one no longer young




Already you can see the tragic setting
and each thing there is in its appointed place;
the broadsword and the ash destined for Dido,
the coin ready for Belisarius.
Why do you go on searching in the hazy
bronze of old hexameters for war
when seven feet of ground wait for you here,
the sudden rush of blood, the open grave?
Here watching you is the inscrutable glass
that will dream up and then forget the face
of all your dwindling days, your agonies.
The last one now draws near. It is the house
in which your slow, brief evening comes to pass
and the street that you look at every day.





Per plakun




Qe tani mund ti shohesh piketat tragjike
dhe cdo gje ndodhet ne vendin e duhur;
kamen dhe hirin flijime per Didon*,
monedhen gati per Belisarin*.
Perse vazhdon ta kerkosh luften ne mjegullen
e bruzte te hekzametrave te vjeter
kur shtate pash toke i ke ketu,
vlimi i papritur i gjakut, varri i hapur?
Ketu duke te kundruar eshte qelqi i pagoje
qe do enderroje tej duke e harruar fytyren
e gjithe diteve te tua ne pakesim, maktheve te tua.
E fundit eshte afer tashme. Eshte shtepia
ne te cilen mbremja jote e ngeshme dhe e shkurter nderron jete
dhe rruga qe ti sheh per cdo dite.






Paris, 1856





The long prostration has accustomed him
to anticipate his death. His concrete dread
is going out of doors into the whim
of day to walk about with friends. Ravaged,
Heinrich Heine thinks about that river
of time that slowly moves away into
that lingering penumbra and the bitter
hurt destiny of being a man and a Jew.
He thinks about exquisite melodies
whose instrument he was, and yet he knows
the trilling doesn't come from trees or birds
but time and from the days' slim vagaries.
And yet your nightingales won't save you, no,
nor night of gold and flowers sung in your words.





Paris, 1856




Lengata e gjate ia ka bere te afert
idene e vdekjes. Ankthi i tij i prekshem
behet gati te dale neper diten
trillane per nje shetitje me miqte. Rregjuar
Hajnrih Hajne kujton ate lume
kohe qe ngadale largohet per tek
muga gjarperuese dhe te hidhurin
fat te lenduar te te qenit njeri dhe hebre.
Ai perkujton melodite e zgjedhura
instrumenti i te cilave qe, dhe prape e di
qe ligjerimi nuk vjen nga pemet e zogjte,
por koha dhe tekat nazike te dites.
Prapeseprape bilbilat e tu nuk do te te shpetojne, jo,
as nata e arit dhe luleve kenduar ne fjalet e tua.




Camden, 1892




The smell of coffee and the newspapers.
Sunday and its lassitudes. The morning,
and on the adjoining page, that vanity-
the publication of allegorical verses
by a fortunate fellow poet. The old man
lies on a white bed in his sober room,
a poor man's habitation. Langiudly
he gazes at his face in the worn mirror.
He thinks, beyond astonishment now; that man
is me, and absentmindedly his hand
touches the unkempt beard and the worn-out mouth.
The end is close. He mutters to himself;
I am almost dead, but still my poems retain
life and its wonders. I was once Walt Whitman.






Camden, 1892




Aroma e kafese dhe gazetat.
E diela me plogeshtine. Mengjesi,
dhe ne faqen pasardhese, ajo kotesi-
publikimi i vargjeve alegorike
nga nje sivella poet fatlum. Plaku
shtrihet ne nje shtrat te bardhe ne dhomen hijerende,
banesa e nje njeriu te varfer. Ligsht
ai vrojton fytyren e tij ne pasqyren e ronitur.
Mendon, tani pertej cdo magjepsjeje; ai
njeri jam une, dhe pavemendshem dora e tij
prek mjekren e lene pas dore dhe gojen dhembrralle.
Fundi eshte afer. Ai murmurin me vete;
jam pothuajse i vdekur, por prape poezite e mia ruajne
jete dhe mrekullite e saj. Njehere une qeshe Uolt Uitmen.






Ars Poetica




To look at the river made of time and water
and remember that time is another river,
to know that we are lost like the river
and the faces dissolve like the water.

To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep
while it is another dream, and that the death
that our flash goes in fear of is that death
which comes every night and is called sleep.

To see in the day or in the year a symbol
of the days of man and of his years,
to transmute the outrage of the years
into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol.

To see in death sleep, and in the sunset
a sad gold-such is poetry,
which is immortal and poor. Poetry
returns like the dawn and the sunset.

At times in the evenings a face
looks at us out of depths of a mirror;
art should be like that mirror
which reveals to us our own face.

They say that Ulysses, sated with marvels,
wept tears of love at the sight of Ithaca,
green and humble. Art is that Ithaca
of green eternity, not of marvels.

It is also like the river with no end
that flows and remains and is the mirror of one same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and is another, like the river with no end.






Ars Poetica




Ta kqyresh lumin prej kohe dhe uji
dhe te kujtosh se koha eshte nje tjeter lume,
ta dish se ne jemi te humbur si lumi
dhe se fytyrat zhbehen si uji.

Te mbash mend se endrrat me syhapur s'jane pergjume
nderkohe qe eshte nje enderr tjeter, dhe se vdekja
qe limfa jone i tutet eshte ajo vdekje
e cila vjen pernate dhe quhet gjume.

Te shohesh brenda dites e vitit nje simbol
te diteve te njeriut dhe te te tijave vite,
ta shnderrosh dhunen e viteve
ne muzike, mermeritje zerash, dhe nje simbol.

Ta shohesh vdekjen si gjume, dhe perendimin
si nje ar te trishtuar-kjo eshte poezia,
qe eshte e pavdekshme dhe e varfer. Poezia
rikthehet si nje lindje dhe si perendim.

Nganjehere mbremjeve nje fytyre
na shikon nga thellesite e nje pasqyre;
arti duhet te jete si ajo pasqyre
qe zbulon para nesh tonen fytyre.

Thone se Uliksi, i vele prej mrekullive,
derdhi lote dashurie kur u shfaq Itaka
e gjelber dhe e perunjur. Arti eshte ajo Itake
e gjelberimit te perjetshem, jo e mrekullive.

Eshte gjithashtu si lumi qe s'ka fund
qe rrjedh dhe mbetet dhe eshte pasqyra e te njejtit
te paqendrueshem Heraklit, qe eshte i njejti
dhe eshte nje tjeter, si lumi qe s'ka fund.






My whole life





Here once again the memorable lips, unique and like yours.
I kept getting close to happines and have stood in the shadow of suffering.
I have crossed the sea.
I have known many lands: I have seen many women and two or three man.
I have loved a girl who was fair and proud, with a spanish quietness.
I have seen the city's edge, an endless sprawl where the sun goes down
tirelessly, over and over.
I have relished many words.
I believe deeply that this is all and that I will neither see nor accomplish
new things.
I believe that my days and my nights in their poverty and their riches are
the equal of God's and of all men's.





Krejt jeta ime




Ja edhe njehere buzet e paharrueshme, te pashoqe e te ngjashme me tuat.
Gjithnje e me shume i qasesha lumturise dhe nen hijen e vuajtjes kam qendruar.
E kam kaluar detin.
Kam njohur shume vende;kam pare shume gra dhe dy a tre burra.
Kam dashur nje vajze te ndershme dhe krenare, me nje pervujtesi spanjolle.
Kam pare zgripin e qytetit, nje zderhalle e paane ku dielli perendon
palodhshem, prape e pafund.
Kam shijuar shume fjale.
Besoj me gjithe zemer se kjo eshte gjithcka dhe une as do shoh e as do kryej
tjera gjera.
Besoj se ditet dhe netet e mia me gjithe fitoret dhe humbjet jane
kryekreje si te Zotit dhe gjithe njerezve.





Manuscript found in a book by Joseph Conrad





In the shimmering countries that excude the summer,
the day is blanched in white light. The day
is a harsh slit across the window shutter,
dazzle along the coast, and on the plain, fever.

But the ancient night is bottomless, like a jar
of brimming water. The water reveals limitless wakes,
and in the drifting canoes, face inclined to the stars,
a man marks the limp time with a cigar.

The smoke blurs gray across the constellations
afar. The present sheds past, name, and plan.
The world is a few vague tepid observations.
The river is the original river. The man, the first man.






Doreshkrim i gjetur ne nje liber te Xhozef Konrad



Ne vendet e nxehta me vere te perhershme
dita shkelqen ne drite te bardhe. Dita
eshte nje e care e thikte permes griles se dritares
lebyrese pergjate bregut, dhe ne rrafshulte, zabullime.

Por nata e vjeter eshte e luhatshme, si nje ene
buzemebuze me uje. Uji zbulon rryma te pacak
dhe ne kanoet bishtnuese, fytyrepjerre kah yjet
nje burre i gezohet kohes me nje cigare.

Tymi mjegullon gri pergjate yjesive
te largeta. E sotmja le pas te shkuar, emer e plan.
Bota eshte nje grusht i paplote e i vaket vezhgimesh.
Lumi eshte ai i pari. Njeriu, po ashtu.






Anticipation of love





Neither the intimacy of your look, your brow fair as a feast day,
nor the favor of your body, still mysterious, reserved, and childlike,
nor what comes to me of your life,settling in words or silence,
will be so mysterious a gift
as the sight of your sleep, enfolded
in the vigil of my arms.
Virgin again,miraculously, by the absolving power of sleep,
quiet and luminous like some happy thing recovered by memory,
you will give me that shore of your life that you yourself do not own.
Cast up into silence
I shall discern that ultimate beach of your being
and see you for the first time, perhaps,
as God must see you-
the fiction of time destroyed,
free from love, from me.





Dashuria e pritshme





As intimiteti i pamjes tende, perkora jote si dite feste,
as dorezimi i kurmit tend, ende i mistershem, i drojtur, dhe njomezak,
as ajo pjese e jetes tende qe me perket, me ane fjalesh apo heshtjeje,
do te jete nje dhurate aq misterioze
sa pamja jote ne gjume, mbeshtjelle
ne qerthullin e kraheve te mi.
Prape e virgjer, mrekullisht, nen fuqine shfajesuese te gjumit,
e qete dhe e dritshme si nje gje e gezuar risjelle nga kujtesa,
ti do te me japesh ate pjese te jetes tende qe as ty nuk te perket.
Dune permbi heshtje
une do te shquaj plazhin perfundimtar te qenies tende
dhe do te te shoh ty per here te pare, ka gjasa,
si Zoti e ka shkruar,
sajesa e Kohes shkermoqur,
e lire nga dashuria, nga une.





Rain





Quite suddenly the evening clears at last
as now outside the soft small rain is falling.
Falling or fallen. Rain itself is something
undoubteley which happens in the past.

Whoever hears it falling has remembered
a time in which a curious twist of fate
brought back to him a flower whose name was "rose"
and the perplexing redness of its red.

This rain which spreads its blind accros the pane
must also brighten in forgotten suburbs
the black grapes on a vine across a shrouded

patio now no more. The evenings' rain
brings me the voice, the dear voice of my father,
who comes back now, who never has been dead.





Shi




Me ne fund krejt papritur mbremja pastron
tani perjashta nje shi i vogel i bute rigon pa nda'.
Bie apo ra. Shiu ne vetvete eshte dicka
qe padyshim ne te shkuaren gulfon.

Kur bie kushdo e degjon ka kujtimin
e nje kohe kur nje kthese tekanjoze e fatit
u riktheu nje lule me emrin "trendafil"
dhe te kuqen coroditese te nje kuqelimi.

Shiu, qe shpleks grilen e tij pergjate qelqnajes,
duhet te shkelqeje gjithashtu ne rrethina te harruara
vilet e zeza ne nje vreshte perballe nje ballkoni

tashme te zbuluar. Shiu i mbremjes
me sjell zerin, zerin e dashur te tim eti,
i cili rikthehet tani, i cili kurre nuk pat vdekur.





Remorse





I have committed the worst sin of all
that a man can commit. I have not been
happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
drag me and mercilessly let me fall.
My parents bred and bore me for a higher
faith in the human game of nights and days;
for earth, for air, for water and for fire.
I let them down. I wasn't happy. My ways
have not fulfilled their youthful hope. I gave
my mind to the symmetric stubbornness
of art, and all its webs of pettiness.
They willed me bravery.. I wasn't brave.
It never leaves my side, since I began;
this shadow of having been a brooding man.




Keqardhje



Une kam kryer me te keqin krim
nje njeri mund te kryeje. Nuk kam qene
i lumtur. Leri akullnajat e harrimit
te me heqin zvarre dhe pa meshire te me lene te bie.
Prinderit e mi me linden dhe me rriten per nje qellim
me te larte ne lojen njerezore te neteve dhe diteve;
per token, per ajrin, per ujin dhe per zjarrin.
I zhgenjeva. Nuk qeshe i lumtur. Udhet e mia
nuk i permbushen shpresat e tyre rinore. Ia fala
veten kryenecesise simetrike
te artit dhe rrjetave te tij zemerngushta.
Trimeria ish rruga qe me treguan. Nuk qeshe trim.
Qe ne krye te heres eshte perhere me mua;
kjo hije e te paturit qene nje njeri mbizoterues.





Things that might have been





I think about things that night have been and never were.
The treatise of Saxon myths that Bede omitted to write.
The inconceivable work that Dante may have glimpsed
as soon as he corrected the Comedy's last verse.
History without tw afternoons; that of the hemlock, that of the Cross.
History without Helen's face.
Man without the eyes that have granted us the moon.
Over three Gettysburg days, the victory of the South.
The love we never shared.
The vast empire of the Vikings declined to found.
The globe without the wheel, or without the rose.
John Donne's judgment of Shakespeare.
The Unicorn's other horn.
The fabled Irish bird which alights in two places at once.
The child I never had.






Gjera qe mund te ishin




Mendoj per gjera qe mund te ishin e kurre nuk qene.
Studimi i miteve Saksone qe Bede la pa kryer.
Vepra e jashtezakonshme qe vegoi para Dantes
sapo ai korrigjoi vargun e fundit te Komedise.
Historia pa dy mbremje; ate te helmit dhe ate te Kryqit.
Historia pa fytyren e Helenes.
Njeriu pa syte qe bejne te mundur henen.
Fitorja e Jugut ne tre dite Getisburgu.
Dashuria qe kurre se shtime.
Perandoria pafund pagjetur nga vikinget.
Rruzulli pa rroten, ose pa trendafilin.
Shekspiri sipas Xhon Donit.
Briri tjeter i Brivetmit.
Zogu irlandez i perralles qe shtegton ne dy vende njeheresh.
Femija qe kurre se pata.





The Exile
(1977)





Someone makes tracks along the paths of Ithaca
and has forgotten his king, who was at Troy
so many years ago;
someone is thinking of his new won land,
his new plough and his son,
and is happy, in the main.
Within the confines of the globe, myself Ulysses,
descended deep into the Hall of Hades
and saw the shade of Tiresius of Thebes
who unlocked the love of the serpents
and the shade of Hercules
who kills the shades of lions on the plain
and at the same time occuoies Olympus.
Someone today walks streets-Chile, Bolivar-
perhaps happy, perhaps not.
I wish I could be he.





Mergimi




Dikush le gjurme shtigjeve te Itakes
dhe ka harruar mbretin e tij, i cili qe ne Troje
shume vite te shkuara;
dikush po mendon per tokat e fituara rishtas
parmenden e re dhe te birin,
dhe eshte i lumtur, pergjithesisht.
Brenda kufijve te rruzullit une, Uliksi,
zbritem thelle deri ne nenboten e Hadit
dhe pame hijen e Terzeut te Tebes
shkyces i dashurise se gjarperinjve
dhe hijen e Herkulit
vrases i hijeve te luaneve ne rrafshulte,
e ne te njejten kohe banor i Olimpit.
Sot dikush baret rrugeve,-Kili, Bolivari-
i lumtur ka gjasa,ka gjasa jo.
Do doja te isha ai.






Baruch Spinoza




A haze of gold, the Occident lights up
the window. Now the assiduous manuscript
is waiting, weighed down with the infinite.
Someone is building God in a dark cup.
A man engenders God. He is a Jew
with saddened eyes and lemon-colored skin;
time carries him the way a leaf, dropped in
a river, is borne off by the waters to
its end. No matter. The magician moved
carves out of his God with fine geometry;
from his desease, from nothing, he's begun
to construct God, using the word. No one
is granted such prodigious love as he;
the love that has no hope of being loved.






Baruk Spinoza




Tis ngjyrear, perendimi vezullon
ne dritare. Tani doreshkrimi i perkore
po pret, nen peshen e te pafundmes.
Dikush po nderton zotin ne nje kupe te erret.
Nje njeri krijon zotin. Ai eshte nje hebre
me sy te pikelluar dhe lekure te verdheme;
koha e bart pergjate ashtu si nje gjethe,
rene ne lume, shkon shpine uji deri
ne grykederdhje. Lende nuk ka. Magjistari heq
copeza nga zoti i tij me nje gjeometri te holle;
prej semundjes se vet, prej asgjese, ai ka nisur
te ndertoje Zotin me ane te fjales. Askujt
vec tij i eshte dhuruar nje dashuri e paperseritshme;
dashuri pa shpresen e te qenit i dashuruar.




Compass



Every single thing becomes a word
in a language that Someone or Something, night and day,
writes down in e never-ending sccrible,
which is the history of the world, embracing

Rome, Carthage, you, me, everyone,
my life, which I do not understand, this anguish
of being enigma, accident and puzzle,
and all the discordant languages of Babel.

Behind each name lies that which has no name.
Today I felt its nameless shadow tremble
in the blue clarity of the compass needle,

whose rule extends as far as the far seas,
something like a clock glimpsed in a dream
or a bird that stirs suddenly in its sleep.





Busulla



Cdo gje shnderrohet ne fjale
ne nje gjuhe qe Dikush a Dicka, nate e dite,
hedh ne leter; nje shkarrashkrim te pafund
qe eshte historia e botes perfshire

Romen, Kartagjenen, ty, mua, gjithkend.
Jeten time, te cilen nuk e kuptoj, kete angushti
te te qenit pazgjidhje, aksident dhe fjalekryq
dhe te gjitha gjuhet e palidhura te Babelit.

Pas cdo emri ndodhet ai qe s'ka emer.
Sot e ndjeva dridhjen e hijes se tij te paemer
ne blune e qashter te nje gjilpere busulle,

kontrolli i se ciles shtrihet deri tek detet e larget,
dicka si vegimi i nje ore ne enderr,
a nje zog qe papritmas perpushet ne gjume.





Clouds (I)



There can not be a single thing which is
not cloud. Cathedrals have it in that tree
of boulders and stained glass with Bible myths
that time will soon erase. The Odyssey
contains it, changing like the sea, distinct
each time we open it. Your mirrored face
already is another face that blinked
in day, our dubious labyrinth of space.
We are the ones who leave. The multiple
cloudbank dissolving in the dropping sun
draws images of us. Ceaselessly will
the rose become another rose. You are
the cloud, the sea, you are oblivion,
and you are whom you've lost, now very far.





Rete (I)





As edhe nje gje e vetme nuk ekziston ne forme tjeter
pervecse si re. Katedralet e kane ne ate degezim
guresh dhe qelq te sterpikur me mite biblike
qe koha do fshije saora. Odiseu
e permban, i paqendrueshem si deti i tjeterllojte
sa here qe e hapim. Fytyra jote e pasqyruar
eshte nderkohe nje fytyre tjeter qe vetoi
ne dite, apo labirint medyshez hapesire.
Ne jemi ata qe ikim. Vargani
i reshtellungave duke u shperbere ne diellrenie
skicon imazhet tona. Papushim
trendafili do behet nje tjeter trendafil. Ti je
reja, deti, ti je harresa,
dhe ti je ata qe ke humbur, tani krejt larg.






Clouds (II)





High in the air these placid mountains or
the cordilleras tragic in their shade
wander, darkening day. The name in store
for them is clouds. The shapes tend to be strange.
Shakespeare observed one, and to him it was
a dragon. A stray cloud of aternoon
glitters, burns in his word, and we transpose
it into vision we still follow. Soon
we ask: what are clouds?An architecture
of chance? Maybe God needs them as a warning
to carry out his plan of infinite
creation, and the're threads of plots obscure
and vague. Maybe a cloud is no less fixed
than someone looking at it in the morning.





Rete (II)





Lart ne ajer keto male te shtruara apo
kordiliere tragjike ne hijen e tyre
enden, ne te errur. Ne i njohim me
emrin re. Format qellon ti kene te cuditshme.
Shekspiri vezhgoi nje, dhe iu duk
si dragua. Nje re arrakate e pasdites
shkelqen, digjet ne fjalen e tij, dhe ne e zhvendosim
brenda nje vizioni te cilin ende besojme. Me pas
pyesim; cfare jane rete? Nje arkitekture
e rastit? Ndoshta Zotit i duhen si ogur
qe percjell planin e tij te perjetesise.
Ato jane thurje planesh te erreta
dhe te vageta. Ndoshta nje re eshte nje e dhene
ashtu si kundruesi i saj nje mengjes.






The limit




The silent friendship of the moon
(I misquote Virgil) has kept you company
since that one night or evening
now lost in time, when you restless
eyes made her out for always
in a patio or a garden since gone to dust.
For always? I know that someday someone
will find a way of telling you this truth:
"You will never see the moon aglow again.
You've now attained the limit set for you
by destiny. No use opening every window
throughout the world. Too late. You will never find her."
Our life is spent discovering and forgetting
that gentle habit of the night.
Take a good look. It could be the last.





Caku



Miqesia e heshtur e henes
(vaget riprodhoj Virgjilin) te ka bere shoqeri
qe nga ajo nate a mbremje
tani mbetur prapa, kur paprashem
syte e tu e prodhuan pergjithmone
ne nje ballkon a nje kopesht qe tashme nuk eshte.
Per gjithmone? E di se nje dite dikush
do te gjeje nje menyre per ta treguar kete te vertete:
"Ti kurre nuk do ta shohesh me henen e perflakur.
Ti tani e ke arritur cakun e parathene
nga fati. Nuk ka pse hap cdo dritare
anekend botes. Krejt vone. Ti kurre nuk do ta gjesh ate."
Na shkon jeta duke zbuluar dhe duke harruar
ate zakonin e bute te nates.
Ngulja syte mire. Mund te jete hera e fundit.






The accomplice





They crucify me. I have to be the cross, the nails.
They hand me the cup. I have to be the hemlock.
They trick me. I have to be the lie.
They burn me alive. I have to be that hell.
I have to praise and thank every instant of time.
My food is all things.
The precise weight of the universe. The humiliation, the rejoicing.
I have to justify what wounds me.
My fortune or misfortune does not matter.
I am the poet.





Bashkefajtori





Ata me kryqezojne. Me duhet te jem kryqi, gozhdet.
Ata me zgjasin kupen. Me duhet te jem helmi.
Ata me mashtrojne. Me duhet te jem genjeshtra.
Me duhet te levdoj e falenderoj cdo minute.
Ushqimi eshte gjithe c'kam.
Pesha e perpikte e universit. Fyerja, ngazellimi.
Me duhet te shfajesoj ate qe me plagos.
Fati im i mire a i keq nuk ka rendesi.
Une jam Poeti.




Happines



Whoever embraces a woman is Adam. The woman is Eve.
Everything happens for the first time.
I saw something white in the sky. They tell me it is the moon, but
what can I do with a word and a mythology.
Trees frighten me a little. They are so beutiful.
The calm animals come closer so I may tell them their names.
The books in the library have no letters. They spring forth when I open them.
Leafing through atlas I project the shape of Sumatra.
Whoever lights a match in the dark is inventing fire.
Inside the mirror an Other waits in ambushg.
Whoever looks at the ocean sees England.
Whoever uttters a line of Lilencorn has entered into battle.
I have dreamed Carthage and the legions that destroyed Carthage.
I have dreamed the sword and the scale.
Praised be the love wherein there is no possesor and no possesed, but
both surrender.
Praised be the nightmare, which reveals to us that we have the power to
create hell.
Whoever goes down ta a river goes down to the Ganges.
Whoever looks at an hourglass sees the dissolution of an empire.
Whoever plays with a dagger foretells the death of Cesar.
Whoever dreams is every human being.
In the desert I saw the young Sphinx, which has just been sculpted.
There is nothing else so ancient under the sun.
Everything happens for the first time, but in a way that is eternal.
Whoever reads my words is inventing them.


Lumturia

Kushdo perqafon nje grua eshte Adami. Gruaja eshte Eva.
Gjithcka ndodh per here te pare.
Pashe dicka te bardhe ne qiell. Me thane qe ishte hena, por
cfare mund te bej me nje fjale dhe nje mitologji.
Ua kam pak friken pemeve. Ato jane shume te bukura.
Kafshet e urta me afrohen qe te mund t'iu tregoj emrat.
Librat ne biblioteke nuk kane shkronja. Ato hidhen perpjete sa here i hap.
Duke shfletuar atlasin skicoj formen e Sumatres.
Kushdo ndez nje shkrepese ne erresire shpik zjarrin.
Brenda pasqyres nje Tjeter ka zene prite.
Kushdo i hedh syte oqeanit sheh Angline.
Kushdo shqipton nje varg te Lilenkornit behet pjese e betejes
Une kam enderruar Kartagjenen dhe legjionet qe shkaterruan Kartagjenen.
Kam enderruar shpaten dhe peshoren.
Bekuar qofte dashuria pa imzot e imskllav, por
qe ka dy rober.
Bekuar qofte makthi, i cili na ben me dije se ne kemi forcen per
te krijuar ferrin.
Kushdo zbret tek lumi zbret tek Gangu.
Kushdo veshtron tek nje ore rere sheh tretjen e nje perandorie
Kushdo luan me shpaten parasheh vdekjen e Cezarit.
Kushdo enderron eshte te gjithe njerezit.
Ne shkretetire pashe Sfinksin e ri, i gdhendur tevona.
Asgje tjeter ne kete bote eshte aq e lashte.
GFjithcka ndodh per here te pare, por ne nje menyre qe eshte e perjetshme.
Kushdo lexon fjalet e mia eshte duke i shkruar ato.


The cloisters


From a place in the kingdom of France
they brought the stained glass and the stones
to build on the island of Manhattan
these concave cloisters.
They are not apoprychal.
They are faithfull monuments to a nostalgia.
An american voice tells us
to pay what we like,
because this whole structure is an illusion,
and the money as it leaves our hand
will turn into old currency or smoke.
This abbey is more terrible
than the pyramid at Gizaor the labyrinth of Knossos
because it is also a dream.
We hear the whisper of the fountain
but that fountain is in the Patio of the Orange Trees
or the epic of Der Asra.
We hear clear Latin voices
but those voices echoed in Aquitaine
when Isalm was just over the border.
We see in the tapestries
the reserruction and the death
of the doomed white unicorn
because the time of this place
does obey an order.
The laurels I touch will flower
when Leif Eriksson sights the sands of America.
I feel a touch of vertigo.
I am not used to eternity.




Portiket


Nga nje vend ne Mbreterine e Frances
sollen xhamat e sterpikur dhe guret
per te ndertuar ne ishullin e Manhatanit
keta portike te luget.
Ata nuk jane apokrife,
ata jane permendore besnike te nje nostalgjie.
Nje ze amerikan me thote
te paguajme sa te duam,
sepse gjithe kjo krahine eshte nje genjim
dhe parate sapo i leshojme
do kthehen ne mjet kembimi te vjeter ose tym.
Kjo abaci eshte me e tmerrshme
se piramida ne Giza
apo labirinti i Knosit
sepse eshte gjithashtu nje enderr
Ne degjojme peshperimen e shatervanit
por shatervani eshte ne Kopeshtin e Portokalleve
ose ne Epin e Del Asra-s.
Ne degjojme zera latine te qashter
jehona e te cileve vinte nga Aquitaine
kur Isalmi qe krejt afer kufirit.
Ne shohim ne qendismat
ne ringjalljen dhe vdekjen
e te namunit Brivetmit te bardhe
sepse koha e ketij vendi
i bindet nje rregulli.
Dafinat qe prek do lulezojne
kur Leif Eriksson shquan plazhet e Amerikes
Ndjej qe Vertigo me eth.
Perjetesia eshte dicka e panjohur.




Susana Bombal


Tall in the evening, arrogant, aloof,
she crosses the chaste garden and is caught
in the shutter of that pure and fleeting instant
which gives to us this garden and this vision,
unspeaking, deep. I see her here and now,
but simultaneously I also see her
haunting an ancient, twilit Ur of the Chaldees
or coming slowly down tha shallow steps,
of a temple, which was once proud stone but now
has turned to an infinity of dust,
or winkling out the magic alphabet
locked in the stars of other latitudes,
or breathing in a rose's scent, in England.
She is were music is, and in the gentle
blue of the sky, in Greek hexameters,
and in our solitudes, which seek her out.
She is mirrored in the water of the fountain,
in time's memorial marble, in a sword,
in the serene air of a patio,
looking out on sunsets and on gardens.

And behind the myths and the masks,
her soul, always alone.


Buenos Aiores, November 3, 1970




Suzana Bombal



Mbremjes e gjate, moskokecarese, e ftohte.
Ajo kalon kopeshtin e hijshem dhe kapet
ne thurimen e atij casti te qashter e te ikshem
qe na jep kete kopesht e kete pamje te thelle,
te pafjale. E shoh ate ketu dhe tani
por njeheri e shoh gjithashtu
duke iu fanitur nje muzgu te lashte ne Ur
apo duke haperuar ngadale shkalleve te uleta
te nje tempulli, dikur gur i forte e tani
kthyer ne nje pafundesi pluhuri
apo duke shkulur alfabetin magjik
kycur ne yjet e fjetur lartesish
ose ne Angli duke i marre ere nje trendafili.
Ajo eshte aty ku muzika eshte dhe ne te buten
blu te qiellit, ne hekzametrat greke,
dhe ne vetmimet tona qe e kerkojne.
Ajo eshte pasqyruar ne ujin e burimit
ne mermerin perkujtues te kohes, ne nje shpate,
ne ajrin e kthjellet te nje ballkoni
kundruese e perendimeve dhe kopshteve.

Dhe prapa miteve e maskave
shpirti i saj, vazhdimisht vetem.



Everness



One thing alone does not exist - oblivion.
God, who saves the metal, saves the dross
and stores in his prophetic memory
moons that have still to come, moons that have shone.
Everything is there. The thousands of reflections
which between the dawn and the twilight
your face has left behind in many mirrors
and those faces it will go on leaving yet.
And everything is part of that diverse
and mirroring memory, the universe;
there is no end to its exigent corridors
and the doors that close behind you as you go;
only the far side of the sunset's glow
will show you at last the Archetypes and Splendors.




Vetem nje gje nuk ekziston - harrimi.
Zoti, qe shpeton metalin, shpeton skorien
dhe stivon ne kujtesen e tij profetike
hena ene te palindura, hena qe kane perenduar.
Gjithcka eshte aty. Mijra pasqyrimet
qe mes agimit dhe muzgut
fytyra jote la pas ne shume pasqyra
dhe ato fytyra do jene aty prape e pafund.
Gjithcka eshte pjese e atij kujtimi
te llojllojte dhe pasqyrues, gjithesise;
pafund jane korridoret e tij te gjera
dhe dyert qe mbyllen pas teje tek largohesh;
vetem ana e pertejme e drites se perendimit
do ti kallzoje me ne fund Arketipet dhe Mrekullite.





Remorse for any death


Free of memory and hope,
unlimited, abstract, almost future,
the dead body si not somebody: It is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
whom they insist has no attributes,
the dead person is no one everywhere,
is nothing but the loss and absence of the world.
We rob it of everything,
we do not live it one color, one syllable:
Here is the yard which its eyes no longer take up,
there is the sidewalk where it waylaid its hope.
It might even be thinking
what we are thinking.
We have divided among us, like thieves,
the treasure of night and days.


Keqardhje per cdo vdekje


I lire prej kujteses dhe shpreses,
i pafund, abstract, pothuajse e neserme,
trupi i vdekur nuk eshte dikush: eshte vdekja.
Ashtu si zoti i se panjohurave,
per te cilin kembengulet nuk eshte i pervecem,
i vdekuri eshte askush gjithkund,
asgje vec humbja dhe mungesa e botes.
Ne e zhvasim nga te gjitha,
ne nuk jetojme me nje ngyre, nje rrokje.
Ja edhe kopeshti jo me i ngerthyeshme nga syte e tij,
ja edhe anerruga ku kurthoi shpresen.
Madje mund te jete duke menduar
te njejten gje ne po mendojme.
I kemi ndare barabar, si hajdutett,
pasurine e diteve dh neteve.



Parting



Three hundred nights like three hundred walls
must rise between my love and me
and the sea will be a black art between us.

Nothing will be left but memories.
O afternoons earned with suffering,
nights hoping for the sight of you,
fields along my way, firmament
that I am seeing and losing...
Final as marble
your absence will sadden other afternoons.




Ndarja



Treqind nete si treqind mure
duhet te ngrihen mes meje dhe dashurise sime
dhe deti do jete nje art i erret midis.

Asgje do kete mbetur vec kujtimet.
O mbremje fituar me vuajtje,
nete me shpresen e siluetes tende,
fusha pergjate rruges, qiej
qe duken e zhduken...
Perfundimtare si mermeri
mungesa jote do trishtoje mbremje te tjera.




The maker

We are the river you spoke of, Heraclitus.
We are time. Its intangible course
carries lions and mountains along,
the tears of love, the ashes of pleasure,
insidious interminable hope,
immense names of empires turned to dust,
Hexameters of the greeks and the romans,
a gloomy ocean under the power of dawn,
sleep, that foretaste of death,
weapons and the warrior, monuments,
the two faces of Janus ignorant of each other,
the ivory labyrinths woven
by chess pieces moving over the board,
the red hand of Macbeth which has the power
to turn the seas to blood, the secret
working of clocks in the shadows,
a boundless mirror which regards itself
in another mirror and no one there to see them,
steel engravings, Gothic lettering,
a bar of sulfur left in a cabinet,
the heavy tolling of insomnia,
sunrises and sunsets and twilights,
echoes, undertows, sand, lichen, dreams.
I am nothing but those images
shuffeld by chance and named by tedium.
From them, even though I am blind and broken,
I must craft the incorruptible lines
and (this is my duty) save myself.





Krijuesi

Ne jemi lumi te cilin permende, Heraklit.
Ne jemi koha. Rrjedha e saj fluide
bart luane dhe male pergjate,
lotet e dashurise, mbetjet e kenaqesise,
shprese pafundesisht tinzare,
emra te medhenj perandorish shnderruar ne pluhur,
Hekzametrat e grekeve dhe romakeve,
nje oqean i mjegullt nen kuroren e agimit,
gjumi, ajo paradarke e vdekjes,
armet dhe kaloresi, monumentet,
dy fytyrat e Janus-it ne padije te shoshoqes,
labirinthet e fildishta thurur
nga gure shahu tek levizin neper fushe,
dora e kuqe e Makbethit e cila ka fuqine
ti ktheje detet ne gjak, misteri
i mekanizmit te oreve ne hije,
nje pasqyre e paane e cila e sheh veten
para nje tjeter pasqyre dhe askush nuk eshte t'i kundroje,
gdhendje ne hekur, shkronja Gotike,
nje kuti sulfuri harruar ne nje senduk,
kerdia e pagjumesise,
dielllindjet dhe diellikjet e muzgjet,
jehonat, abyset, rera, likenet, endrrat.
Une jam gjithe ato pamje
perzier nga rastesia dhe pagezuar nga monotonia?
Prej tyre, edhe pse jam i verber e i ligeshtuar,
me duhet te formesoj vargje sojnike
dhe (kjo eshte detyra ime) veten ta shpetoj.






The suicide

Not a single star will be left in the night.
The night will not be left.
I will die, and, with me
the weight of the intolerable universe.
I shall erase the pyramids, the medallions,
the continents and faces.
I shall erase the accumulated past.
I shall make dust of history, dust of dust.
Now I'm loooking on the final sunset.
I am hearing the last bird.
I bequeath nothingness to no one.



Vetvrasja



Asnje yll nuk do te kete ate nate.
E fundmja nate do te jete.
Une do te vdes, dhe bashke me mua
barra e patolerueshme e gjithesise.
Do ti fshij piramidat, medalionet,
kontinentet dhe fytyrat.
Do ta fshij te shkuaren grumbull.
Pluhur do behet historia, pluhnaje pluhuri.
Tani po shikoj perendimin e mbrame.
Po degjoj te mbramin zog.
Trashegim askujt i le hicmosgjene.





I


The skull within, the secret, shuttered heart,
the byways of the blood I never see,
the underworld of dreaming, that Proteus,
the nape, the viscera, the skeleton.
I am all those things. Amazingly,
I'm too the memory of a sword
and of a solitary, falling sun,
turning itself to gold, the gray, then nothing.
I am the one who sees the approaching ships
from harbor. And I am the dwindled books,
the rare engravings worn away by time;
the one who envies those already dead.
Stranger to the man who interlaces
such words as these, in some room in a house.



Une



Rrashti perbrenda, sekreti, zemra e derrmuar,
pipthat e gjakut qe kurre se pashe,
bota e poshtme e enderrimit, Proteu,
palcaku, te perbrendshmet, skeleti.
Une jam gjithe keto gjera. Marramendshem,
une jam gjithashtu kujtimi i nje kame
dhe nje dielli vetmitar ne renie
tek behet argjend, gri, e asgje me pas.
Une jam ai qe shquan anijet qe i afrohen
portit. Dhe jam librat mykngrene,
gdhendjet e lashta ronitur nga koha;
ai qe te vdekurit mban me te madh.
I huaj per njeriun qe pleks fjale
si keto ne nje dhome, ne nje shtepi.



A blind man


I do not know what face is looking back
whenever I look at the face in the mirror;
I do not know what old face seeks its image
in silent and already weary anger.
Slow in my blindness, with my hand i feel
the contours of my face. A flash of light
gets through to me. I have made out your hair,
color of ash and at the same time, gold.
I say again that I have lost no more
than the inconsequential skin of things.
These wise words come from Milton, and are noble,
but then I think of letters and of roses.
I think, too, that if I could see my features,
I would know who I am, this precious afternoon.





I verbri




Nuk e di c'fytyre me sheh
kurdo jam para pasqyre;
nuk e di c'fytyre e vjeter kerkon binjaken
ne zemerim mundimshem te heshtur.
I ngadalte ne verberine time me duar i ndjej
konturet e fytyres sime. Nje fashe drite
me gjen. U kam dhene forma flokeve te tu,
ngjyrehiri dhe argjendi ne te njejten kohe.
E them perseri se nuk kam humbur asgje me shume
se formen a parendesishme te gjerave.
Keto fjale urtie jane te Miltonit, dhe i mbaj lart,
por pastaj mendoj per letrat dhe trendafilat.
Mendoj, gjithashtu, se po te mund ti shihja tiparet e mia,
do e dija kush jam, kete pasdite te cmuar.



The moon
for maria kodama

There is such loneliness in that gold.
The moon of the nights is not the moon
whom the first adam saw.The long centuries
of human vigil have filled her
with ancient lament. Look at her. She is your mirror.


Hena
per maria kodama

Ka kaq vetmi ne ate ar.
Hena e neteve nuk eshte hena
qe adami pa se pari. Shekujt e gjate
te kundrimit njerezor e kane mbushur
me vaje te lashta. Shikoje. Ajo eshte pasqyra jote.




Epilogue



Now that the number of steps you were given
to walk on earth have been taken,
i say that you have died.
I, who remember the precise night
of your unknown goodbye, now ask myself;
whatever could have become of those two boys
who around nineteen-twentysomething
searched with ingenuous platonic faith
along night's endless sidewalks
of the south or in Paredes's guitar
or in the fables of knives and streetcorners
or in the dawn, untouched by anyone,
for the secret city of Buenos Aires?
Brother in the hard tones of Quevedo
and in our love of the rhythmic hexameter,
discoverer (as all of us were then)
of that ancient instrument, metaphor,
Francisco Luis, of the studied book,
if only you might share this vain
afternoon with me, without any explanation,
and help me perfect the lines of my poem.


Epilog


tani kur ecejaket qe te perkisnin
mbi kete toke te jane mbaruar,
them se ti ke vdekur.
Une, qe e kujtoj saktesisht naten
e lamtumires tende te panjohur, tani pyes veten;
cfare do qene bere ata dy djelmoshe
qe pa mbushur te njezetat
kerkuan neteve me mprehtesi e besim qiellor
neper trotuaret e pafundme te jugut ose ne kitaren e Paredes
ose trillimet e thikave dhe qoshkave
ose ne agim, prekur nga askush,
per qytetin sekret Buenos Aires?
Vella ne tingujt e zorshem te Quevedos
dhe ne dashurine per ritmet hekzametre,
zbulues (si te gjithe ne atebote)
i mjetit antik, metafores,
Francisco Luis, i librit te rremuar,
sikur vetem ti ta ndaje kete
mbremje te vaget me mua, pa kurrfare shpjegimi,
te me ndihmoje me lemimin e vargjve te kesaj poezie.



Possesion of Yesterday


I know the things I've lost are so many that I could not begin to count them
and that those losses
now, are all I have.
I know that I've lost the yellow and the black and I think
of those unreachable colors
as those that are not blind can not.
My father is dead, and always stands beside me.
When I try to scan Swinburne's verses, I am told, I speak with my father's voice.
Only those who have died are ours, only what we have lost is ours.
Ilium vanished, yet Ilium lives in Homer's verses.
Israel was Israel when it became an ancient nostalgia.
Every poem, in time, becomes an elegy.
The women who have left us are ours, free as we are now from misgivings,
from anguish, from the disquiet and dread of hope.
There are no paradises other than lost paradises.


Sundimi i se djeshmes


E di se te shumta jane gjerat qe kam humbur aq sa numerimit nuk mund t'ia filloj
dhe ato humbje
tani, jane gjithe c'kam.
E di se kam humbur te verdhen dhe te zezen dhe mendoj
per ato ngjyra te pakapshme
ne nje menyre ata qe nuk jane te verber s'e bejne dot.
Babi im i vdekur eshte gjithmone diku prane.
Kur perpiqem te rrokjezoj vargjet e Suinbernit, me thane, une flas me zerin e tim eti.
Vetem te vdekurit na perkasin, gjithecka humbem eshte e jona.
Troja u shua, e prape Troja jeton ne vargjet e Homerit.
Izraeli ishte Izrael kur u be nje nostalgji antike.
Cdo poezi, me kohe, behet elegji.
Grate qe na braktisen jane tonat, te lire sic jemi tani nga mosbesimet,
nga ankthi, zallamahia dhe frika e shpreses.
Te vetmet parajsa jane parajsat e humbura.



You are not the others

The writings left behind by those your dread
implores won't have to save you. You are not
the others, and you see your feet have brought
you to the center of a maze their tread
has plotted. Jesus' pain will afford no pardon,
nor Socrates' suffering, nor the inviolate
Golden Siddhartha, who within the twilit
final hour of evening, in a garden,
accepted death. These too are dust;the soundless
verb spoken by your lips, and the word written
by your hand. In Fate there is no pity
and the enduring night of God is boundless.
Your matter is time, its unchecked and unreckoned
passing. You are each solitary second.



Ti nuk je te tjeret

Ti nuk je ne meshiren e atyre qe ankthi yt
pergjeron dhe as te shkrimeve qe te lane. Ti nuk je
te tjeret edhe pse kembet te shpien
ne zemer te nje labirinthi rrahur nga gjurmet e tyre.
Dhimbja e Jezusit eshte me e madhe se falja,
ashtu dhe vuajtja e Sokratit, apo Sididarta e arte
qibare e cila brenda ores finale te muzgut,
ne nje kopesht, iu dha vdekjes. Keto jane pluhur, gjithashtu;
folja e pazeshme shqiptuar nga buzet e tua, fjala e shkruar
nga dora jote. Nuk ka meshire ne Fat
dhe nata e qendrueshme e Zotit eshte e pacak.
Koha eshte lenda, rrjedha e saj e pakapshme dhe
e pacaktuar. Ti je gjithsecili sekond.










Elegy for a park

The labyrinth has vanished. Vanished also
those orderly avenues of eucalyptus,
the summer awnings, and the watchful eye
of the ever-seeing mirror, duplicating
every expression on every human face,
everything brief and fleeting. The stopped clock,
the ingrown tangle of the honeysuckle,
the garden arbor with its whimsical statues,
the other side of evening, the trill of birds,
the mirador, the lazy swish of a fountain,
all are things of the past. Things of what past?
If there were no beginning, nor imminent ending,
if lying in store for us is an infinity
of white days alternating with black nights,
we are living now the past we will become.
we are time itself, the indivisible river.
We are Uxmal and Carthage, we are the perished
walls of the Romans and the vanished park,
the vanished park these lines commemorate.


Elegji per nje park

Labirinti eshte zhdukur. Zhdukur gjithashtu
ato avenyte e rregullta te eukalipteve,
tendat verore dhe syri zhbirues
i pasqyres se perhershme duke kopjuar
cdo shprehje ne cdo fytyre njerezore,
cdo gje te shkurter dhe kalimtare. Ora e ndaluar,
kaperthimi i brendshem i dorezonjes,
pjergulla me statujat e cuditshme,
ana tjeter e mbremjes, cicerimat e zogjve,
taraca, gurgullima e qete e nje burimi,
jane te gjitha gjera te se shkuares. C'te shkuare?
Po te mos kishte fillese as fund te pritshem,
nese ajo qe na pret eshte nje pafundesi
ditesh te bardha kembyer me nete te zeza
ne po jetojme tani te shkuaren qe do behemi.
Ne jemi vete koha, lumi i pandashem.
Ne jemi Uksmali dhe Kartagjena, ne jemi muret
e rregjuara te Romes dhe parku i zhdukur,
parku i zhdukur perkujtuar ne keto vargje.



Krishti ne kryq

Krishti ne kryq kembet i prekin token.
Tre kryqet jane barabar te larta.
Krishti nuk eshte ne mes. Ai eshte i treti.
Mjekra e zeze i fshik kraharorin.
Fytyra e tij nuk eshte ajo e hasur ne gravura.
Eshte e ashper, cifute. Une nuk e shoh
dhe do vazhdoj te kerkoj per te
deri ne hapin tim te fundit mbi toke.
Burri i copetuar vuan dhe nuk thote gje.
Kurora me gjemba e torturon.
Ai nuk i degjon talljet e turmes.
qe e ka pare ne agoni sa e sa here,
te tijen e dikujt tjeter nuk ka rendesi.
Krishti ne kryq. Rremujshem
ai mendon rreth mbreterise qe ndoshta e pret,
mendon per gruan qe nuk ishte e tij.
Nuk mundet te perceptoje teologji,
Trinine e padeshifrueshme, Gnostiket,
katedralet, Briskun e Okhamit,
shugurimet, mitren, liturgjine,
shnderrimin e Guthrumit me ane te shpates,
Inkuizicioni, gjaku i martireve,
kryqezatat e egra, Zhan D'Ark,
Vatikani duke bekuar ushtrite.
Ai e di se nuk eshte zot dhe qe eshte njeri
i cili vdes bashke me diten. Nuk ka rendesi.
Ajo qe ndjen eshte hekuri i rende i gozhdeve.
Ai nuk eshte Romak, nuk eshte grek. Denes.
Ai na ka lene ca metafora te shkelqyera
dhe nje doktrine te faljes qe mund
te kaloje bashke me te shkuaren. (Kjo fraze u
shkrua nga nje irlandez i burgosur.)
Shpirti kerkon fundin e vet nxitueshem.
Ka rene nata. Ai ka vdekur tashme.
Nje mize zvarritet mbi trupin e palevizshem.
C'me duhet mua nese ky njeri ka vuajtur
nese une jam duke vuajtur tani?

Kyoto,1984



Christ on the cross


Christ on the cross, his feet touch the earth.
The three crosses are of the same height.
Christ is not in the middle. He is just the third.
The black beard grazes his chest.
His face is not the one seen in engravings.
It is severe, Jewish. I do not see it
and I will keep searching for it
until my last step on earth.
The fractured man suffers and says nothing.
The crown of thorns tortures him.
He does not hear the jeers of the crowd
that has seen him in agony so many times,
his or another's it makes no difference.
Christ on the cross. Chaotically
he thinks about the kingdom that perhaps awaits him,
he thinks about the woman who was not his.
He is not able to percieve theology,
the indecipherable Trinity, the Gnostics,
the cathedrals, Occam's Razor,
the purple, the miter, the liturgy,
Guthrum's conversion by the sword,
the Inquisition, the blood of the martyrs,
tha savage crusades, Joan of Arc,
the Vatican casting its blessing over armies.
He knows that he is not a God and that he is a man
who dies with the day. It makes no difference.
What he does feel is the hard iron of the nails.
He is not a Roman, not a Greek,. He whimpers.
He has left us some splenid metaphors
and a doctrine of forgiveness that can
do away with the past. (that phrase was
written by an Irishmna in prison.)
The soul searches for its end, hurriedly.
Night has fallen. He has died now.
A fly crawls over the still flesh
Of what use is to me that this man has suffered,
if I am suffering now?


Kyoto, 1984






Things



My cane, my pocket change, the ring of keys,
the obidient lock, the belated notes
the few days left to me will not find time
to read, the deck of cards, the tabletop,
a book and crushed in its pages the withered
violet, monument to an afternoon
undoubtedly unforgettable, now forgotten,
the mirror in the west where a red sunrise
blazes its illusion. How many things,
files, doorsills,atlases, wine glasses, nails,
serve us like slaves who never say a word,
blind and so mysteriously reserved.
They will endure beyond our vanishing;
and they will never know that we have gone.





Sendet



Bastuni im, te thyeshmet, rrethi i celesave,
kyci i bindur, shenimet e kahershme
pak dite qe me kane mbetur nuk do kene kohe
per ti lexuar, letrat e kumarit, mbulesa e tavolines
nje liber dhe mes fleteve shkermoqur nje vjollce
e fishkur permendore e nje mbremjeje
padyshim e paharrueshme, tani harruar,
pasqyra ne te djathte ku e kuqja e nje agimi
flakeron dytesin. Kaq shume gjera:
dosje, korniza dere, atlase, gota vere, thonj,
na sherbejne si skllever pa thene nje fjale,
verberisht dhe mistershem kaq te menjanuara.
Ato do jene edhe pas tretjes sone:
dhe kurre nuk do e dine qe ne s'jemi me.





1971



Two men walked on the surface of the moon.
Others will, later. What are words to do?
And what of the dreams and fashioning of art
before this real, almost unreal event?
Heady with daring and with holy dread,
those sons of Whitman now have left their print
on the moon's wasteland, the unviolated
prehuman sphere, changing and permanent.
The love of Endymion in his mountain vigil,
the hippogriff, the curious sphere of Wells,
which in my memory is real and true,
now all take substance. Triumph belongs to all.
Today there is not a single man on earth
who does not feel more confident, more sure.
The unforgettable day thrills with new force
from the single rightness of the odyssey
of those benign magicians. The moon,
which earthly love still seeks out in the sky
with sorrowing face and still-unslaked desire,
will be its monument, everlasting, one.





1971




Dy njerez shkelen kembe ne hene.
Te tjere do vijne me pas. Cfare mund te thone fjalet?
Po endrrat dhe arti ne mode
para ketij realiteti, kesaj ngjarjeje gati te enderrt?
Rrembyer nga guximi dhe nga frika e shenjte
ata bij te Uitmanit tani kane lene gjurme
ne djerrinat e henes, te paprekuren
sfere paranjerezore, e ndyshueshme dhe e gurte.
Dashuria e Endimionit ne malin e tij,
kali me flatra, gogla kureshtare e Uellsit
ne kujtimin tim e prekshme dhe e vertete,
tani te gjitha kane kuptim. Ngadhenjimi u perket te gjitheve.
Sot nuk ka nje njeri te vetem ne toke
qe nuk ndihet me i sigurte, ka me besim.
Dita e paharrueshme rrenqeth me force te re
nga virtyti i pashoq i odisese
te atyre cudibereseve te mire. Hena
qe prape neper qiell kerkon dashurine tokesore
me fytyre te trishtuar dhe deshire ende te pashuar
do te jete permendorja e saj e perjetshme.




The unending rose
to Susana Bombal


Five hundred years in the wake of the Hegira,
Persia looked down from its minarets
on the invasion of desert lances,
and Attar of Nishapur gazed on a rose,
addressing it in words that had no sound,
as one who thinks rather than the one who prays:
"Your fragile globe is in my hand; and time
is bending both of us, both unware,
this afternoon, in a forgotten garden.
Your brittle shape is humid in the air.
The steady, tidal fullnes of your fragrance
rises up to my old, declining face.
But I know you far longer than that child
who glimpsed you in the layers of a dream
or here, in this garden, once upon a morning.
The whiteness of the sun may well be yours
or the moon's gold, or else the crimson stain
on the hard sword-edge in the victory.
I am blind and I know nothing, but I see
there are more ways to go; and everything
is an infinity of things. You, you are music,
rivers, firmaments, palaces, and angels,
o endless rose, intimate, without limit,
which the Lord will finally show to my dead eyes."




Trendafil i perjetshem
per Susana Bombal




Peseqind vjet pas Muhamedit,
Persia pa poshte qe nga minarete
nje ushtri pushtuese ushtash qe vinin nga shkretetira
dhe Atari i Nishapurit duke kundruar nje trendafil,
drejtuar atij me fjale te pa tingull,
si dikush qe mendon e jo si dikush qe lutet:
"sfera jote e brishte eshte ne doren time; dhe koha
na perkul te dyve, te dy pa e ditur,
kete mbremje ne nje kopesht te harruar.
Forma jote e luhatshme eshte zagushime ne ajer.
E forte, batica e plote e parfumit tend
ngrihet gjer tek fytyra ime e vjeter, ne rregjim.
Por une te njoh shume me gjate se ai femije
qe te pa rreshqanthi ne feksjen e nje endrre
a ketu ne kete kopesht, njehere e nje mengjes.
Bardhesia e diellit mund te jete e jotja
apo e arta e henes, a njolla e gjakte
ne tehun e pathyer te shpates pas nje fitoreje.
Jam i verber dhe nuk di gje, por shoh
se ka me shume se nje rruge: dhe gjithcka
eshte nje pafundesi gjerash. Ti je muzika,
lumenjte, kupeqiejt, pallatet, dhe engjejt,
O trendafil i perjetshem, intim, pa cak
zoti me ne fund do t'ua tregoje syve te mi te vdekur."


The mirror

As a child I feared the mirror might reveal
another face, or make me see a blind
impersonal mask whose blankness must conceal
something horrible, no doubt. I also feared
the silent time inside the looking glass
might meander from the ordinary stream
of mundane human hours, and harbor deep
within its vague, imagjinary space
new-found beings, colors, unknown shapes.
(I spoke of this to no one; children are shy.)
Now i fear the mirror may disclose
the true, unvarnished visage of my soul,
bruised by shadows, black and blue with guilt-
the face God sees, that men perhaps see too.



Pasqyra



Femije frigohesha se pasqyra mund te zbuloje
nje fytyre tjeter apo te me beje te shoh nje maske
te verber fiktive zbarazetia e se ciles duhet te fshehe
dicka te tmerrshme, pa dyshim. Gjithashtu frigohesha
koha heshtane brenda qelqit kundrues
mund te dredhoje prej rrjedhes se zakonshme
te ores tokesore te njeriut dhe strehohej thelle
brenda papercaktise se saj. Hapesire e perfytyruar,
qenie te sapozbuluara, ngjyra, forma te panjohura.
(Nuk fola me askend rreth kesaj; femijet jane te drojtur.)
Tani frigohem pasqyra mund te paraqese
te verteten, pamjen e pazbukuruar te shpirtit tim
mavijosur nga hijet, zi e blu nga faji.
Fytyra qe zoti sheh, qe njeriu ndoshta sheh gjithashtu.




To my father


You wished to die entirely and for good,
your flashand its great soul. You wished to go
into that other shade with no sad flood
of pleas from one whose pain and terror show.
We saw you die with that serenly calm
spirit your father had before the lead
of bullets. War gave you no wings, no psalm
or shouts. The dreary Parc was cutting thread.
We saw you die smiling and also blind,
expecting nothing on the other side.
But your sade saw or maybe barely spied
those final archetypes you shared with me
the Plato the Greek dreamt. No one will find
that day for which your marble is the key.



Tim eti


Ti uroje te vdisje njehere e pergjithmone
me mish dhe me shpirt. Uroje te ikje
ne ate boten tjeter pa morine e trishte
te pergjerimeve te dikujt nen dhimbje e tmerr.
Te pame tek vdisje me ate shpirt
kthjelltesisht te qete ashtu si yt ate para
plumbave. Lufta nuk te dha krahe, psalm
a klithme. ....................................................
Te pame tek vdisje buzeqeshur dhe gjithashtu te verber
duke e ditur se ne anen tjeter pret asgjeja.
Por hija jote pa a ndoshta pikasi
arketipet perfundimtare qe mi refeve
Platonin nga Greku enderruar. Kurrkush nuk do gjeje
diten te cilen mund ta zberthesh me celesin tend.





For a version of I Ching



The imminent is as immutable
as rigid yesterday. There is no matter
that rates more than a single, silent letter
in the eternal and inscrutable
writing whose book is time. He who believes
he's left his home has already come back.
Life is a future and well traveled track.
Nothing dissmises us. Nothing leaves.
Do not give up. The prison is bereft
of light, its fabric is incessant iron,
but in some corner of your mean environs
you might discover a mistake, a cleft.
The road is fatal as an arrow's flight
but God is watching in the narrowest light.




Per nje variant te Librit te Ndryshimeve


Cdo gje e pritshme eshte e qendrueshme;
e ngurte si e djeshmja. Asnje ceshtje
qendron me lart se nje germe e vetme, ne heshtje
ne te perjetshmen te pashpjegueshme,
shkrim libri i te cilit quhet kohe. Ai qe beson
se ka ikur nga shtepia nderkohe eshte kthyer prape
jeta eshte e ardhme dhe nje e kaq njohur trage.
Asgje nuk na le perjete. Asgje nuk shkon.
Mos u dorezo. Pa nje grime dritesie
eshte burgu, nje thurime hekuri kryekreje
por ne nje qosh te gjithe kesaj vrazhdesie
ti mund te zbulosh nje gabim, nje carje.
Shtegetimi eshte i fundme si fluturim shigjete
e zoti na sheh nga nje fashedrite.


Shqiperoi Alfred Lela