The Bulgarian Turtle, committed to rendering into Spanish two of the most prominent and admired Albanian poets, now publishes Free Verses, Migjeni’s poetic work, following the publication of the anthology by the national poet Naim Frashëri.
In Zenda we reproduce five poems from Free Verses (The Bulgarian Turtle edition), by Migjeni.
*****
Prelude to Preludes
The gods fade day by day
and their traces slip
across years and centuries
and now one no longer knows who is God and who is man.
In the human brain God still crouches.
He gouges his temples with his finger
as a sign of contrition
shouting at the height of sorrow:
what, what have I created?
—And man does not know:
whether he is God, a creature of Him
or he — a creature of God.
But he sees it as sterile and barren
to ponder an idol
that does not answer.
And now no one knows who is God and who is man.
A time has come
when men understand themselves perfectly
to build the Tower of Babel —
and at the top of the Tower, at the top of the throne
man must ascend
and must cry out:
God! Where are you?
*
Children of the New Century
We, children of the new century,
who leave the old one in its “holiness”
and raise our fists to fight
in new battles
to triumph…
We, children of the new century,
sprouts of a land drowned in tears,
whose brow’s sweat was shed in vain —
for our land was a morsel for outsiders
that paid dearly for its follies and missteps…
We, children of the new century,
brothers and anointed in affliction,
when the supreme moment sounds
and flattering
we shall say:
We do not want to lose ourselves
in the bloody game of human history,
No, no!, we must not lose ourselves anymore —
we want victory!
Victory of conscience and free thought!
We do not want, for the sake of the old filth that “holiness” seeks,
to sink ourselves deeper into the swamp of misery,
to keep wailing the ill-fated chant,
the monotonous song, lifeless, of slaves —
to be a thorn that pierces the human brain.
We, the children of the new century,
with drive and fiery enthusiasm,
will face new trials
and in pursuit of victory, will be guilty of martyrdom.
*
The Song of Youth
Youth, utter your most beautiful song!
Name the song that surges ardently in your chest.
Let your joy explode with force…
Do not curb the song, let it fly!
Say the song, youth, we beg you…
that the song grips you, kisses you, drives you toward love
with youthful ardor… that plunges us
into foaming waves of turbulent emotion.
Youth, say your song and laugh childish!
Let the heaven tremble at the roar of your voice
and turn toward us — the stars themselves envy you
and we love you as one loves a sun.
Say the song, youth, your sublime song!
Laugh, youth, laugh, the universe is yours!
*
Blasphemy
Mosques and churches drift through our memories,
on their walls prayers of meaninglessness crash
that have not managed to rend God’s heart,
for it continues, beating between drum and bell.
Mosques and sumptuous churches in miserable zones…
bell towers and minarets above our shacks…
voices of the muezzin and the priest, their contemptible chant…
Oh, ideal image, ancient, millennial!
Mosques and churches float in the minds of believers.
The tolling bells intertwine with the voice of the town crier,
over the cassocks and beards of Hoxha, virtue shines.
Oh, how many beautiful angels at the gates of hell!
*
Scandalous Song
A pale nun, bearing the sins of the world
upon her exhausted shoulders, beside mine,
upon waxen shoulders, anointed by a divine kiss
— crosses the city streets like a fleeing angel…
A pale nun, cold as a tombstone
with eyes gray as ashes of burning passion,
with fine red lips stifling two faint sighs
— her icy step has left me with a deep impression.
From praying (not from blaspheming!) she leaves and returns to prayer again…
Her prayers sleep between her eyes, between her lips, between her fingers
Without her prayers, what would become of the world?
Yet dawn has not come, despite her prayers.
Oh pale nun, lover of the saints,
who burn with them in ecstasy like a candle on the altar
and before them you open yourself… How I envy the saints:
but do not pray for me, for I wish to end in hell.
You and I, nun, are ends of the same rope;
from which two squadrons pull toward both sides —
that fierce struggle, who defeats is unknown,
but, if the rope tightens, people collide.
————————
Author: Migjeni. Title: Free Verses. Translation: María Roces González. Publisher: The Bulgarian Turtle. Sales: Todostuslibros.