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Revista Letrare

Wild cherries

Wait for me on the beach I’ll pick some wild cherries while the old woman looks at me strangely Her dog too Sit in the sandy bar with people who talk of things Read something new about old sensations Wait for me on the beach I’ll pick some more wild…

Elida RUSTA: Rushed

In my heart there’s a little forest where your heart’s nest rests on a branch under the tiny sky where you fly with a pendant made of wolf’s bone around your neck. Breathless I linger a day and night, another day and night. …so painful, we are afar! Under the…

Lasgush PORADECI: Pogradec

A shimmering sunset on the endless lake. Ghostlike, a veil is slowly spread. Over mountain and meadow the dark of night descends, Settling from the heavens upon the town. Over the vast land no more sound is to be heard: In the village the creaking of a door, On the…

Luan RAMA: Poets die like birds

(Arben Shehi went to blow out his candle the night before…)   Poets fall like sparrows, Fired, struck by lightning, closer to the storm and the sun. Poets are the wounded heart of gamebirds: that’s why they are the first to plummet wing-broken, sleepwalking towards an endless death in a…