Can a man cry?
To cry, I want to cry, but I have no secret place,
A corner where children and wife can’t hear me.
A place where I can empty my soul and be free,
Like the north winds through fall’s embrace
or the leaves of the oaks lie scattered in disgrace.
But why, you ask. I do not even know myself,
Except deep within me, fire without words remain.
A flame burns in the heart, begins with little pain,
A fire grows and devours my innermost shelf
And rises to choke me with groans I cannot quell.
And then, collected, suffering, I writhe alone,
I shudder and tremble, but I cannot flee.
like the heart of an ox, at the butcher’s decree,
trembling and leaping on his hand is shown,
From morning till dusk this happens to be.
So I try to drain my soul of what weighs it down,
Emptying the poisons that have left me unfree.
But I am a man—a forbidden man, you see—
Taught to swallow tears, in silence as a crown,
And bury the grief inside, where no sound can flee.
If men could weep, in this world in chains,
when the moment asks the captives to be free;
won’t the world surely a better place to be,
For the spirit that drains instills tears in veins,
Doesn’t it resemble the God gives light for thee.
Translation from Albanian to English
By Alfred Kola
