By: Aqif Hysa
I myself sent her to death. Step by step.
She held on my arm tight. She feared falling.
We’d laugh until the end and beyond. We’d remain silent.
We’d go beyond word as though playing with toys.
We would phone the wind. Was last autumn’s wind.
The leaves would answer us. The leaves fallen on the road.
We’d play with the leaves. The leaves would play with us.
As though they were announcements. As though they were dolls.
We stood in front of the building. We pushed the door open. She entered inside.
She surrendered to white uniformity, to fragility.
She never came back. Whiteness had devoured her forever.
English Translation by: Ukë Zenel Buçpapaj
- Peace cannot be brought by anyone
- A book for peace is a book for God
- Characters – the first Albanian Missionaries of Peace
- Lekë Mandreja, Albanian Writer
- Three brothers, the inception of a legend
- The dissident that commiserate the political opponents
- A message of special type
- Even the stars die
- I myself sent her to death
- The Doe
- Aqif Hysa – Albanian Poet
- The literature – Artistic history of humanity
- The Chams
- Shefki Hysa – Albanian Writer
- The Dictator
- Literary creativity of Hysen Sinani
- Paulin Rranzi, Albanian Writer
- Chameria, the voice of the divine reason
- Left devils, right demons
- The Cham World, a spirited historical – publicistic narration
- The Sadist’s revenge
- A mother speaks to her poet son
- The writer that breaks the armature of dictated values
- The horses of Mitrovica
- Movie Director
- The pigeons’ eggs
- Monument of Skanderbeg
- The false miracle
- Cham Ballad
VANA on The writer that breaks the arm…