Ndue Ukaj was born in Kosova. He is a writer, essayist, and literary critic. To date, he has published five poetry books, one short story collections, a novel, and two literary criticism books. He won several awards, including the national award for best book of poetry published in 2010 in Kosovo. His literary works have been published in distinguished international anthologies and journals and have been translated into many languages.
One autumn day like this
The latest news starts with beautiful tales:
It was once a time of hope and a happy city.
Now there is smoke, fog, and grief stones.
People walk around confused, drink coffee with ghosts,
and make confess to them, as Constantine did
when he brought Doruntina to his mother.
Across the narrow streets, thoughts are narrow
and fall down: also those who make their eyes four.
There was once a time when we expected freedom from the news.
Now the news reveals shadows and tarnish freedom.
Beyond the horizon in steep mountains, snow,
and an endless winter frost.
One autumn day, like this one,
with excess freedom of imagination, with
beautiful women playing in the beautiful autumn leaves.
Meanwhile, across the screens,
a gang of politicians blur their intentions.
One autumn day, like this autumn day,
unscrupulous people walk empty streets.
They abort freedom and appear every evening on our big screens.
Before eyes that see nothing in the fog,
they demonstrate how the kingdom of madness is formed.
At the end of one Autumn day
I stopped the clock. And through the window
I saw many silhouettes, upset people in an upended city
of troubled women
and the troubled children of a handful of very happy politicians.
Despair
Despair has no home,
but dwells wherever meaning is lost
and the story of the Other begins.
Where false witnesses take the big step forward,
with smiling eyes and a poisoned heart.
They wake up with paintings of Pilate in their eyes.
They soak the dried bite in the deep dish of betrayal.
They always have nails to crucify the Other.
They have memorized, crucifixion.
They have time for hatred and no time for love.
Where I Am is beautiful, views stretch like the infinity of mountains.
I do not like the story of the Other who is caught up in nothingness;
and on a beautiful evening like this
I say to myself:
my compassion is solar, circumstantial –
I do not want to hold my smile hostage.
The Galway Review 