As we stroll among the pine trees, slow and serene,
Just the two of us, not too many to be seen,
We walk in silence, thoughts flowing unseen,
With a verse of poetry, there I am, in between.
It’s a beautiful path, leading down to the sea,
But the verse won’t let me hurry, it holds me steady,
Like a girl from behind, now following me,
There by a pine tree, she seeks a moment to be.
It speaks to me of poets, how they write with ease,
But it’s not so simple, for me, you see,
Like a girl I once loved, they make me grieve,
I tire in vain, I can’t write like a devotee.
It speaks of Dante, of the divine Comedy,
Of Esenin, and also of Victor Hugo’s spree,
Of Migjeni, Lazgushi, and the snowy melody,
Of Naim, Kadare, and Dritëroi’s decree.
A friend of mine, who weaves verses and lines,
I strive to be like her, in her light to shine,
And until late at night, with a verse, I recline,
But the words I pen, I often later resign.
Oh… poetry, it weighs heavy on my soul,
Like a fluttering, truly, it takes its toll,
It’s not that I aspire to be a poet whole,
But you’ve entered my heart, and sleep you stole.
