Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
E kujtoj penxheren tënde,
Kur pas perdes më shikoje.
Dhe bukurinë e një ëndrre,
Në mendjen time pikturoje.
E kujtoj si luante perdja,
Porsi dallgët e një zemre,
I zhuritur unë nga etja,
Aty kalova një mbrëmje.
Aty ishte dhe shtëpia,
Dhe dritarja si atherë,
Porse perdja nuk lëvizte,
Dhe shtëpia ish pa derë.
Rreth e qark i rashë avllisë,
Por gjithçka ish e rrënuar,
Përmbi tjegullat e çatisë.
Rrinte një zog i vetmuar.
Ndoshta zogu priste mua,
Të më thoshte s’ka njeri,
Të më thoshte je vonuar,
Perdja nuk levis tani.
Ika, i krrusur nga vitet,
Dhe nga lodhja çalë-çalë,
Perdja lëvizte në mendje,
Dhe kujtimet valë-valë.
The Curtain
I still recall your silent window’s light,
When from the curtain’s shade you gazed at me,
You drew a dream upon my longing sight,
And sealed its fragile flame in secrecy.
The curtain trembled like a restless sea,
Like waves that beat against a hidden heart,
My thirsty soul stood captive, wild and free,
That evening tore my trembling hope apart.
The house stood pale beneath the dying air,
Its window breathing whispers cold and bare,
The curtain froze — no pulse of love was there,
And silence locked the doorway of despair.
Around the yard I wandered, lost in gray,
Where ruins spoke of time’s unfaithful art,
Above the roof, where broken old tiles lay,
A lonely bird kept watch with aching heart.
Perhaps that bird was sent to set me free,
To say no tender voice remained inside,
To tell me love had drifted from the sea,
And left the curtain still — no more to hide.
I left, bent low beneath the weight of years,
Step after step through dust of memory,
Yet in my mind the curtain reappears,
And waves of love still break eternally.
Η Κουρτίνα…
Θυμάμαι το παράθυρό σου εκεί,
πίσω απ’ την κουρτίνα με κοιτούσες,
κι ένα όνειρο, κρυφό σαν προσευχή,
μες στο μυαλό μου εζωγραφούσες.
Θυμάμαι πώς η κουρτίνα εκινούσε,
σαν κύμα μιας καρδιάς που ανασαίνει,
κι εγώ απ’ τη δίψα μου που μ’ έκαιγε,
μια νύχτα εκεί η ψυχή μου μένει.
Εκεί στεκόταν και το σπίτι,
και το παράθυρο όπως πρώτα,
μα η κουρτίνα δεν σαλεύει,
κι ήταν το σπίτι δίχως πόρτα.
Γύρω απ’ την αυλή περιπλανήθηκα,
μα όλα ήταν γκρεμισμένα,
κι επάνω στα κεραμίδια έστεκε
ένα πουλί, μόνο, θλιμμένα.
Ίσως το πουλί να μ’ έγνεφε,
να πει: «κανείς δεν μένει τώρα»,
να πει: «άργησες, διαβάτη μου,
η κουρτίνα δεν κινεί πια ώρα».
Έφυγα σκυφτός απ’ τα χρόνια,
κι απ’ την κούραση βαρύς, αργά,
μα η κουρτίνα μέσα στο νου μου
κυμάτιζε — κι οι μνήμες κύμα-κύμα.
Delo Isufi
Albania
