THE SPECTER OF RUIN AND REDEMPTION: PHANTOMS Angela Kosta’s “Phantoms” is a chilling and profound meditation on the forces of destruction that consume innocence, hope, and the sanctity of life. The poem unfolds like a surreal nightmare, weaving haunting imagery with a rhythmic intensity that immerses the reader in a landscape of despair and moral decay. From its opening lines, Angela constructs a world teetering on the edge of ruin. The “castles of poor, crumbling sand” and “half-extinguished volcanoes” evoke a fragile existence, where innocence is prematurely aged, and suffering is feasted upon by “ravenous jackals.” These phantoms, faceless yet omnipresent, revel in their dominion over lost souls, toasting their conquests with goblets raised in triumph, a grotesque perversion of power and victory. Yet, beneath the poem’s dystopian tableau, a deeper lament emerges: the loss of maternal love, the ultimate protector of life. The sacred veil of motherhood, a universal force of creation and nurture, stands in stark contrast to the merciless phantoms who “forget, deny, and disrespect” its sanctity. The poet masterfully juxtaposes horror with the resilience of life, culminating in a paradoxical reflection: Life, though battered and betrayed, still flickers in the “eyes of every Mother in the universe.” The poem’s structure echoes a relentless waltz, a danse macabre of suffering that unfolds without pause. The repetition of stark, declarative phrases: “And they laugh… They leap in joy… They scorn the tears…”, creates a hypnotic rhythm, amplifying the overwhelming sense of inevitability. The phantoms, insatiable in their hunger for destruction, ultimately retreat into the abyss, leaving behind a world that still clings to hope, however faint. Ana Korça’s translation preserves the poem’s visceral power, rendering Angela Kosta’s vision in language that is both lyrical and unflinching. Phantoms is not merely an elegy for innocence lost but a warning, an unrelenting gaze into the abyss of human cruelty, where the only salvation lies in remembering the sacred essence of love and life. Angela’s voice, poetic yet journalistic in its precision, demands that we confront these phantoms, both within and beyond ourselves.
PHANTOMS Frightening phantoms, born from castles of poor, crumbling sand, a hidden inferno, drowned in the crater of half-extinguished volcanoes, where innocence lingers, the fragility of youth grown old too soon. A feast for ravenous jackals, prey with eyes grotesque and bloodshot, as they lick their lips and twist their whiskers, relishing the power they wield. They raise their goblets in triumph, toasting the conquest of souls lost in suffering… And they laugh… they leap in joy… They scorn the tears gathered in the weary hands of Life, cracked like the heart itself, mercilessly shattered as children’s dreams are buried, seeking salvation in vain. They face the howling of shadowy figures, countless and grim, beckoning them to dance barefoot, clenching their fists tight beneath the wrong sky, a broken circle of decayed earth, as they desperately adore what God once created. And so the waltz of utter ruin goes on, the present devoured, unafraid of tomorrow. They drink endlessly from the upturned chalice, the last drops of poison scattered everywhere, graciously offered by the living phantoms— forgetting, denying, disrespecting the love of their Mothers, the sacred veil that shields the holiest gift in this world: Life. Insatiable, the phantoms retreat into the abyss of the endless night, vanishing, merging with the storm, cloaked in garments of hatred. Horror! Beings as dreadful as their thoughts, unworthy, they appear, with blinding, burning gazes. Oh, sweet yet bitter Life, you find shelter in the dimming glow, reflected in the eyes of every Mother in the universe, eternal cries of war, whispered messages of boundless hope. (English Translator : Ana Korça)
