Poetry: Kolec Traboini (Albania-America)

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Kolec Traboini, Albanian - American poet and writer, a journalist by profession, originates from a patriotic family Gojcaj of Traboini of Hoti. His father, Palok Traboini, was a teacher, a publicist, insurgent and secretary to Dede Gjon Luli. Kolec Traboini, after completing his university studies in 1975, worked at the Cinema Center of Albania. On 10 January 1991 he organized an anti-communist rally in front of the Tirana National Stadium in support of democratic processes. On January 16, 1991, he published in RD No. 3, where he demanded the removal of the Communist star from the National Flag. He emigrated to Greece where on April 10, 1993, he founded the Albanian Newspaper "Egnatia". In 1995 he emigrated to the United States, and lived in Philadelphia, Boston, Washington DC. Author of dozens of documentary films, 30 poetry books, prose and journalism. Traboini has won several national awards for books and documentary films.
By decree of the President of the Republic of Albania, no. 10653, dated 15.11. 2017, Kolec Traboini awarded the title "Grand Master".


Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry
Though the tears, do have a function
They clear the vision
They make you feel the fresh air
So as to make you fall in love
With the tulips and the heavens
After the last rain drop has fallen!
If the temptation or joy, defeat you,
And in your chest, there is a mourning squeeze,
Wanting to break away like a bird from its cage
Then, and if you cry, please tell me,
And please, please, save the last tear drop
for me
I will collect them,
From all women of the world
With them, then, will make
A pearl necklace for the Sun.

Boston USA 2008

(for all those who have roses in their hearts)

Heart, you know to choose the hearts,
Entire your life - after their - running
But, your heart is impossible to choose
Remain only to donate it.
I come to your door
stand before your eyes
because the eyes are the door
to enter in the spirit - you say
and me the same thing happens
if I see your beautiful eyes
little stop and I go inside
full of desire - to see the Sun
or, or, ... to get wet in Rain...



Midnight December slipped down the steps
With Her hair down and scrapped face
As in a pagan death
I am a lonely witness of your death
With a lit cigarette
That can barely warm the last second that won't go
There is no one to witness my lone less
Now I can sit alone thinking of you
Everyone sleeps
The arch of my hand caresses you image
The space you take of the darkness is small
I feel your slow breathing
Just this, only this
This is how little love life has allowed us
Somewhere in the distance a scrapped chest sings a song
A song about something that is long gone
And can never return
A song of something precious...
And then silence comes to steal away words
In the eyes your image has shriveled
Teeth pull back hatred
And the pain of the heart grows
They want to take away the beats
Of your heart and you cannot endure this pain
Shoulders feel heavy with burden
Eyelids tremble like leafs floating in the water
This weight can break trees
The way that a bone
Broke today from your chest
Releasing a blue bird with broken wings from sufferings
Flew in the horizon drunk with feelings of freedom
He knows to where I am
But he falls on the ground breathless
In the sidewalk of madness where winds harden the faces of people
That feels no love
Because they have locked up love in a prison inside their chest
I cannot find a path where people can love without fear
While I seek to release the pains of my wounds
The night is indifferent
It wipes away every memory
Of yesterday
By establishing the rule of silence
By putting out lanterns of our souls
And adding the constraints of my heart
The night drags around the streets of the city
I push it away pointless
She drags with madness
Careless If I anxiously await tomorrow
I have a burning rose in my lips
Beats ripping through my heart
And I have nothing to offer
Except a bouquet of stars this night
The moon hangs over your head
And a kiss for tomorrow
As sun comes up
Under the burning cry of Neruda
Don't die love, don't die
Tomorrow you won't hear more than a sad song!

Dictatorship Time
Albania, Tirana, 14 December, 1988

1 comment :

  1. Thanks to the editorial staff of SETU magazine for this publication of my poems. I'm grateful!

    K. P. Traboini


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