Burhanedin Xhemaili – Three Poems

Burhanedin Xhemaili was born in Kumanovo (North Macedonia). He has attended university studies in the Albanian language and literature in Skopie which culminated with a post-university qualification. Currently, he is working as an advisor in the Ministry of Communities and Political System. He has led the Writers’ Club ‘Jehona e Karadakut’ for two terms and is currently Editor in Chief of its literary magazine ‘Doruntina”. Since 1993 he has published many poetry and short story books, including drama and book reviews. His works have been translated into Macedonian, Croatian, Rumanian, and English languages.


Moments of solitude…

The night weighed down
with drowsy solitude
shook out its black clouds
on the glass of the window
and woke up my silence
lingering on and on
as I looked at an unfolded portrait
in an album of selected memories
which took me to times past
and a lost voice
within the labyrinth of oblivion,
stirred my soul
by its incessant questions
and did not desist at the gate
locked by rain rattles…


Daily routine

At the dawn of this belated day
the grieved silence invites me
to have a bitter-tasting coffee
and the same images
that wander before my eyes
like sneaky mosquitoes
do not leave me alone
in my silenced solitude
to enjoy the lit cigarette
and the falling rain
that fails to drown the views
of the portraits that keep me awake
beside the burning fire
and though invisible to the eye
appear without a warning
like the daily breaking
of the night from the day.
The myopics of the modern times
do not discern the unfolding
of the silenced conscience,
rising up to high podiums
like the fire sparks
over the performing magicians
pretending to be angels
but wearing black masks.


Past time

A written word
on the broken glass of the window
overlooked by the sun
stood out in loneliness
and the balcony veiled
by a spider’s net
evoked for me my lack of trust
in times gone by.
In this wandering silence
the buzz of the raged ants
irritates the neighbourhood cats
playing with a pierced ball
in a tango of despair.
It was not a sad autumn.
We weren’t mourning any relative
but the silence was vying with its shadow
until the light uttered a song…


Translated by Kujtim Morina


 

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