Translated by Ami Xherro

Another night gone, she said, but I am still here, you said, in the forest of your breast, still night. That’s all you told me from the night you were exhausted, changed subjects (night fell like a coincidence) (night like a stepmother; nights when you couldn’t find a home in the city, and you stayed awake outdoors–child in the night, how I saw you, attacking the cars because they ran over a cat, by the Lana, soundlessly kicking the night, the cat surrounded by its entrails–I froze, you ran falling to your knees making a cupola over it amid the car lights bloodying around you. Your sideways eyes and crazy laughing teeth, the animal you could not make breathe).

Another time, arriving at the Lake all together. These are metaphors for you, you said (and, in fact, you used a harsher word), but I, you said, if I wanted, I could really fly. Not one of us said anything. If I had been a poet like you I wouldn’t have doubted you, if you were challenging me with another jump from the windows, friend. (Only the police could prove this metaphor, or not, when they found you at the Cataracts.)

And you were still alive when at the shore of the Erzen I found, or was found by, a gray kitten (looking like you, only it didn’t have glasses) and they laughed when I gave it your last name and it disappeared because I brought it to Tirana and of this there are witnesses, superstitious rhymes, to confirm if I live truly what I write.

What did you say when we saw each other for the last time?

Now I live with a veteran, ex-partisan, all night we share the same window, move your elbow, nëno, I tell her, she laughs, and in the morning you filled your purse with lipstick and mascara, to raid the beauty parlors, ambulances, long lines at the embassies, to turn them into circuses, harlequin, with makeup smeared on the bag, raiding poor women, impossible not to buy you something as soon as you open your mouth, with little money, returning the old men to the partisanship, frying stars above the city until the night is extinguished.

§

Iku dhe kjo natë, të tha, po unë aty paskam mbetur, i the, në pyllin e gjoksit tënd, ende natë. Kaq më tregove nga nata që shkoi dhe u gajase, ndërrove temë (nata po binte si koincidencë) (natë si netët me njerkë kur s’mundje dot të zgjidhje mes shtëpish të qytetit, e gdhije jashtë – fëmijë nëpër natë, ashtu të pashë, sulmoje makinat se shkelnin një mace, anës Lanës, pa zë shkelmonte natë, macja, rrethuar ndër rropulli – unë ngriva, vrap ti shkove në gjunjë iu bëre kupolë përmbi e drita makinash të përgjaknin përqark. Sytë t’i pashë anash e dhëmbët si qeshnin me tërbim, kafshës nuk i dhe dot shpirt).

Herë tjetër, te Liqeni mbërrinim gjithë bashkë. Ju i keni metafora këto, the (e, në fakt, përdore një falë më të ashpër), por unë, the, po desha, futuroj vërtet. Askush nga ne të tjerët s’u ndie. T’kisha qenë si ti poet s’do dyshoja, me drojë, në po sfidoje me tjetër hedhje nga dritaret, shok. (Veç policia mundi ta provojë metaforën, ose jo, kur të gjetën Te Kataraktet.)

Dhe ishe ende gjallë kur bregut t’Erzenit gjeta, a më gjeti, një kotele gri (vetëm se s’kishte syze – krejt ti) dhe qeshën kur i vura mbiemrin tënd si emër dhe u zhduk sa e solla në Tiranë dhe për këto ka dëshmitarë, rima besëtyte, të bindem në jetoi vërtet çka po shkruaj.

Si më the kur u pamë herën e fundit?

Tani jetoj te një veterane, ish-partizane, gjithe natën ndajmë të njëjtën dritare, largoje bërrylin, nëno, i them, ajo qesh, dhe në mëngjes mbushje çantën me buzëkuq e rimel, t’mësyje gjithë ditën floktore, ambulanca, radhë të gjata në ambasada, t’i shndërroje në cirk, arlekin, me grim te çanta, mësyje gratë e varfra, e pamundur mos të të blesh sa hapje gojë, me lekët e pakta, ktheje te partizania plakë, skuqnit yje mbi qytet gjer të shuhej nata.

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Ervin Hatibi is an Albanian poet, essayist and painter. He has published three poetry collections, “Përditë Shoh Qiellin” (Everyday I look at the sky), “6” and “Pasqyra e Lëndës” (Table of Contents), which have strongly marked the Albanian poetry landscape, as well as a collection of essays, “Republick of Albanania.” Hatibi was a child-poet during the Albanian dictatorship, leaving the country to study Arabic and Islamic theology in Jordan. Upon returning to Albania, he became an editor of the Muslim community journal, and began painting and curating.

Ami Xherro is a poet, performer, artist, and translator. Originally from Tirana, Albania, now living in Toronto, she is interested in inscription, uselessness, and doom. Recent works include a performance, The bed withheld the refreshment of a sleep slept on it (supported by the Ontario Arts Council), and sex, love & misc. advice column “Hell but fun.” Her first full-length book of poetry In That Fact is forthcoming fall 2023 with Guernica Editions. She is a co-founder of the Toronto Experimental Translation Collective, co-editor of Barricade: A Journal of Antifascism and Translation, and a PhD student at the University of Toronto’s Centre for Comparative Literature.