IN STILLNESS. IN AWAITING.
I lie on the bed, steeped in stillness.
In awaiting.
A thought pierces my frozen mind:
“Now it will come.”
And lo, in the dark,
my writer’s ghost rises.
I, steeped in stillness,
in awaiting.
Why does he seize pages
from my manuscripts by the bedside?
Why does he tear them, slowly?
Then he drifts to the wall,
drawing yellow buildings on it,
perched on waves – waves that resemble
skulls of people and birds.
I, steeped in stillness,
in awaiting.
Why does a cold fog
envelop my mind?
I retreat to the other corner,
a corner
that slips ever farther away.
In stillness.
In awaiting.
I dream of dressing as my writer.
Shall I tear my manuscripts
mimicking my writer’s ghost?
Shall I then gather and mend the torn shards?
Shall I draw yellow buildings on the wall,
perched on waves – waves
that resemble
skulls of people and birds.
In stillness.
In awaiting.
- English translation by Ukë ZENEL Buçpapaj
