Perparim Dida | Saturday, 10 July 2021 | Print
Reminded me of this late-night tonight,
threw my thoughts away over the years.
Sitting near the window in a corner of ode,
I listened to folk songs and sharkie sounds.
The singer’s finger was moaning over those strings,
ah the sharkia of the singer but two mountain birds.
Wood mani wire grades just like canaries,
and with the sound as nightingale, the singer would return it.
Those late hours top of the mountains,
They used to show the dawns with nightingale songs.
Sharkia, the singer like two birds over the gems,
great pleasure of this heart of mine.
In my imagination now only nostalgia,
no more men dropping the tobacco box.
No nails that wall of ode where the sharkia hung,
with the strings tuned for the singer’s fingers.
Nostalgia for the sofra var on the wall of avllia,
and for softs on the sides of the door big.
The bell of the ram, with the grades of tringllia,
the horse’s hinge comes when he sees hangs a fire.
You metropolis can tell me you are a peasant,
with the thought of me when I will not civilize.
But nostalgia I have for birds and singer,
for late hours of conceals that are not forgotten.
There was no hiking in my mountain village,
like here in town, going for a walk with mama.
From the nostalgia of entertainment and why I’m old,
and as an old city call to mother… mother not mother
Today I laughed out loud here at Flora coffee,
the old man with the cane called loudly an old man, mom.
I rightly said to myself there are no men,
give the old man a pacifier, mom has no breastfeeding.
Posted 9:15 pm | Saturday, 10 July 2021
globalpoetandpoetry.com | Faruk Ahmed Roni
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