Poetry: Mehdi Krasniqi

Mehdi Krasniqi
Mehdi Krasniqi was born in the village of Carrallukë, on 01.09.1981. He completed his higher studies at the Faculty of Philology, the branch of the Albanian language in Pristina. He is the author of 13 books, also translated into foreign languages. He has also been honored and awarded with many international awards.


Dam of silence collapsed
on the patio doors!
The sick has died they raised
the tongues of the living dead!
Dense fog You can't see
either the head or the tail
of the city!


The river has changed direction.
From the next rains the beautiful
home of the poor it will overflow.
The world will understand a different
way of life when you see them
with the naked eye his pillows
stuffed with straw floating
on the water like a wooden ship...

Distraction 9

On the weekend the chronicler of political metaphors writes on the blackboard
the poem about the burning barn.
Sucks desperately on stepmother's breast and to the dolls in the office he says:
The cake should be divided evenly!


It occurred to you that the raindrops
form communities in the window glass
and you see a lot less peonies
what did you see?
in the garden of the Father
where the soul washed its face
with muddled feet.

Have you ever understood the sin of metaphor
in the infidelity of the paper with dozens of postage stamps
that shows the soldier the only way to war
the only way to the poet after the war...

Let me remind you one more thing, my friend
for the dragonfly's tear
left traces in the friction of the lost man
for the dried mosquito blood in the poet's painting
Try to understand without crossing the bridge of sin to bread, salt and heart...


In "Time Beyond Pain"
The preamble of morality does not excuse him from the act of rape.
It breaks in the spirit by making an effort
restore the broken heart.
It fades away like a sound that exhausts after the roar
or like an overburdened ship that is split in two by rough waves and sinks like a piece of corroded ash that suddenly falls from the mouth of a greedy raven
or like an abandoned child who dies in another's arms, his body frozen, his eyes dead without being able to cry!

Away from the palace of pain
hot-blooded memories of nylons
wait for the stamp of the archive of oblivion
but clothed in the garments of death
I will never die unloved...


Insurgent breasts
fallen in battle
because of the exclamation...

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