Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Menda Vreto is an Albanian writer who lives and creates in Italy. She is the author of several books published in Italian and regularly collaborates with both online and print magazines, where she publishes literary articles and essays.
Her work has received significant recognition. Among her achievements is the Special Jury Award in the literary competition Il Silenzio Uccide (Silence Kills), where her work was given a prominent place in the anthology.
Her first book also attracted the attention of the prestigious magazine Marie Claire, which featured her extensively, recognizing both her work and her journey as an author.
Menda Vreto proudly bears the surname Vreto, which is connected to the distinguished figure of the Albanian National Renaissance, Jani Vreto. She considers this family name a legacy of great cultural and historical significance.
A Caress for the World
I would like to place a caress
on the forehead of the Earth,
as one does with a child
when they are afraid of the dark.
I would like to wipe away the tears
of those who have lost a home,
of those who have lost an embrace,
of those who walk in sorrow,
still searching for a little light.
I would like to whisper to every wounded heart:
“You are not alone.
I see you.
I feel your pain.”
Peace is not a distant word,
written only in books.
Peace lives in small gestures:
in bread broken and shared,
in a hand held with love,
in a smile given without asking for anything in return.
There are mothers who wait,
children who ask only for a peaceful sky,
people who carry within them wounds
that no one can see.
To them I would like to offer a promise:
a gentler world,
a world where no one should ever feel forgotten.
Because peace is born quietly,
in the heart of the one who forgives,
in the hands of the one who helps,
in the eyes of the one who chooses
to see a brother in another.
And so, dear Earth,
heal slowly.
We will be here,
with open hearts,
to protect your greatest dream:
to live together,
without fear,
with love .
The Homeland That No Longer Speaks by Menda Vreto
We left,
not as people,
but as seasons torn from their own calendar.
We parted from the land
like roots scorched in silence,
and the roads behind us
remained open only to the wind.
The homeland did not call us.
It remained silent.
A heavy silence,
like a bell submerged beneath the water.
Our homes grew old while waiting for us.
The walls absorbed the dampness of our absence,
the courtyards filled with brambles,
and the dogs barked through the night
as if searching for our shadows behind the gates.
We arrived in cities of dazzling lights,
where the sky had no stars,
only signs glowing like artificial suns.
We learned foreign languages,
professional smiles,
lives measured by schedules,
loves with conditions,
dreams tied to contracts.
And yet, within us,
there remained a land
that never stopped dying.
An entire village continues to walk inside our hearts:
women carrying water at dusk,
old men speaking with the vineyards,
barefoot children chasing the dust of summer.
They still live there,
in that part of the soul
where nostalgia
refuses to emigrate.
The homeland, by now,
is a broken voice
that reaches us at night
from the old radios of memory.
It is a breath
that throws open the windows of sleep
and fills our lungs with earth.
We laugh at foreign tables,
raise our glasses,
make plans,
take photographs,
raise children who speak other languages.
Then, suddenly,
in the midst of happiness,
a nameless absence passes through us.
And it is then that we understand:
the homeland was not only a place.
It was the way our mother
called our name.
It was the scent of bread in the morning.
It was the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof.
It was someone who recognized our footsteps
even when we returned from far away.
Now it no longer speaks.
Or perhaps
it is we
who have forgotten
how to listen to its sorrow.
