No one sees them, pretending not to notice,

They remain the ghosts of misery living among us,

Some whisper that they pollute us so much,

Somebody who have never seen misery in life.

Kujtim Hajdari, an Albanian exiled poet, shares his poems

Kujtim Hajdari was born in Hajdaraj, on April 10, 1956, in the city of Lushnjë, Albania. He completed high school, mechanical studies, and later pursued university studies in language and literature in Elbasan. He initially worked as a mechanic, and after graduating from university, he became a teacher of language and literature in High Schools.

He started writing at a young age, with his poems and creations being published in the local newspaper and magazines during his middle school and high school years. After completing high school, he prepared three volumes: poetry titled ‘Will Spring Come?’, short stories titled ‘The Violinist’, and a drama titled ‘Sleepless Nights’. However, his works did not see the light of publication due to political reasons.

After the change in the political system, he went into exile in Italy, where he spent many years before eventually settling in the USA. For a long period of time, he stopped writing due to the demoralization caused by the non-publication of his volumes and the threats he faced as a dissident writer, as well as the challenges of family and the difficulties of exile. He started writing again, after a hiatus of about 25 years, composing poetry in Albanian, Italian, and more recently, in English.

Both in Italy and the USA, he continues to write and be active, occasionally publishing volumes of poetry, participating in various national and international competitions, and sharing his poetry on numerous online platforms and in different publications. His themes cover a wide range of topics, with a significant focus on the issues and challenges of exile. He primarily writes structured poetry but also experiments successfully with free verse. So far his 15 poetry books have been published while his poems have been published in 66 anthologies – 12 national and 54 international, in three languages: Albanian, Italian and English. He has received numerous awards, certificates and diplomas from various web groups and associations.

Martyrs-Cemetery-Lushnje

THE UNSEEN

They move through the shadows like bad dreams,

In their corners of the night, hidden, dark,

Where they squeeze misery between pain and tears,

Until the rays of dawn awaken them, trembling.

Above my head and eyes, I have the endless city,

Tall buildings in clouds that graze the sky,

Wide streets that find no end, and flowers

Full of color and fragrance that bring me spring.

For them, this world is foreign, distant, buried,

They no longer have hands or feet to touch that life,

Perhaps a desire, a buried dream, they remember,

But they no longer have the strength or eyes to follow it.

Everyone runs relentlessly for luxury and wealth,

Man is never satisfied, always seeking a better life,

This dizzying race, for them, only brings wonder,

For those, the phantoms of society, with a weary spirit.

Someone exhausted, broken, with no strength left,

No longer ventures out, extending a hand for charity,

Rummaging through trash bins to find something to eat,

With cries and garbage, their spirit is drawn away.

No one sees them, pretending not to notice,

They remain the ghosts of misery living among us,

Some whisper that they pollute us so much,

Somebody who have never seen misery in life.

***

Lushnje

WHY DO WE DO THIS?

How much we massacre this life,

We run with fury, like crazy we run,

To take a day, beyond there, a ground’s handful,

In the eternal world from which we won’t return.

We run to accumulate as much wealth as possible,

We run eagerly to attain power,

We run angry for fame and glory,

As if will live on this earth forever.

We trample the beauty of life underfoot,

Often nurturing and feeding nastiness and evil,

We hurt each other, friends and brothers,

Losing logic as much we snatch up weapons.

We reach the sunsets of worn-out years,

We see how much they have killed and defeated us,

Those tired, trampled, and broken years,

And we weep for our lost paths in life.

No one turns back or comes back,

In a dawn of April, to start from the beginning,

Only a longing and a sorrow remain, burning us,

Leading us to irreversible sunsets, tormenting us.

We weep for something we did without thinking,

And we lost, we broke with people around us,

Like autumn leaves falling to the ground,

We weep for the wasted years of life.

We weep for a sweet word left unspoken,

A flower of spring that we couldn’t catch the scent,

In the shadows of graves where we left our joys,

Where the soul drips with a voice that hurts.

Why do we do this…!?

***

MAYBE YOU WILL COME ONE DAY

The first spring flowers have bloomed again,

The clouds move as if searching for something in the sky,

Here below, amidst the greenery, only you are missing,

And this morning sun brings me your image.

Walking beside me, the longing you left behind,

And this gentle breeze pushes me into your footsteps,

In the chirping of the birds, your songs sleep,

And I wake them up, to hear those songs as much as I want!

I enjoyed the spring mornings again, so much,

Where the beautiful legs you get wet, once, with dew,

The birds following in the endless greenery,

Smiling sweetly when you said “Good morning!”

I enjoy the mornings so much again,

As long as hope is not lost that you will come one day,

As long as your memories follow me as they used to,

As long as all the loves ignite in my soul.

Maybe you will come one day, perhaps with a different name,

Like a beloved Eve descending from the sky,

With the warmth and love that only a woman has,

And I, like a medieval knight, have to wait for you.

Published under International Cooperation with "Sindh Courier"