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Ndue Ukaj
Godo is not coming

is raining, the road from Irland is unpassable
The sea cannot be passed with small steps, on rainy nights
When solitude is overwhelming you enjoy the earthquake cracks of the Earth
When pain has no time even for scientific explanation.

Godo is not coming, it is late, infected by the welcoming
Sleeping comfortably, amongst both of our dreams.
He is not coming, neither under the tree of life nor in the theater of wonders,
Under the sleep of expectation which your time doesnt understand...our time.

You are waiting, like the bride on the abandoned bed,
Dreaming of him with open arms as he brings a sack full of dreams
Extending your hands with softness, as in the beloved hair...relaxes there
And prays to your dreams, intertwined through your tall fingers.
Suddenly a bite freezes your body, your hand flies from the sack.
Wiping your forehead you understand that Godo didnt come, neither his enigmatic look.
Nontheless you are not convinced that your dream entered in a sack.
It was tied foreverer just like Godos arrival.
Surprisingly passed on the other side of the furious river of words
As you pass amongst the dreams full of wonders towards the guards of time
That makes the noise of life in the dream of expectation.
Nearby the time guards
Foster the hope that Godo nevertheless will come.

Godo is not coming, no...!
You are crying, crying frantically until your tears have made a creek
Between your cheeks and your continuous flow of tears.
Where the heart beats are felt like the steps of the unknown
In the gloomy night when grief is around the corner
And even Godo could experience it on his hands and be thrown desperately.

The Emigrant

men of my time, Shriveled
As a shell thrown into a dark mud,
Runs in search of time,
Which nobody recognizes, including him.

Lost, with the myth of return burning on his head,
Travels all over the World,
Is not Odyssey, Ithaca is not looking for him
He knows that Penelope is layed in bed and beloved like never before.

Every twilight, when quietness bites.
Unafraid with his head full of passions.
And with the fists full of memories that boil like water on fire
He runs over the meridians of the planet
Without maps and borders, without names nor time
Like a messenger bird, the emigrant
Journeyed through time, reads and re-reads.
Lies to himself endlessly
While numbering centuries on his fingers.
The letter passes the red see on foot.
There is no Nazareth anymore,
Neither the promised land. Saddened!
There is a castle full of death waging myths.
Very unfortunate, returns running over the frozen sea.
Counts again the years of his life.
On his dreams there are no angels to be invited.
He is extremely delayed.
The return on the fatherland of passions is even far away
Than the remembrance for the departure day towards the endless migration!

The twilight is gone, and time is gone.
He runs ahead pursuing the star of return.
Which vanished together with the star swallowed by the dark clouds.
And the discovery of a dream that smells bad
Somewhere that I dont know where?
The migrant, a contemporary raven,
Lamenting without a break in search of himself.

As autumn is shaken in front of the winter sleep

Hemingwayan waves of time

sea is under storms
And the old man fishing without rest
With the ship of the endless times
Searches the shores to his best
A black cloud escorts, with exuberant steps
Lifes fish on the reckless sea.
Is an agitated sea and has many wonders
Also has an old man fishing tirelessly,
And a girl fallen in love
Wishing to have the golden fish undoubtedly.
The relentless sea
Is never a peaceful sea,
An attacked ship
Fights for her life
From many storms.
In a misterious depth of the sea under storm
A hungry shark threatens at every cost.
And a broken ship breaks forward with all including the helm.
Icy winter makes the frozen sea like a stone
And the storm grows with continuously.

The old man doesnt look at his time,
Screams anxiously and counts the years on his fingers
Is a gloomy night the sea isnt peaceful
Napping from fishing stops and thinks
Now he understands, is the end of life
Was not born to be a peoples fisherman
Neither a construction rock.
But his love for life turned it into sailing.
It is sad in these cold icy days
Sea shores are away, there is no wave to rescue him.
The ship of time is challenged while sailing.
She is shaken like the wind with the tired old man.

Until the sun falls over the sea
And the very hungry girl catches the fish.
The acquarium of memories is on her shadow
As pieces of her compassionate heart.
A big tent of mercifulness.

My God, my Sunday dialogue is even more lonesome
Than the Autumn night with strong winds,
Than the Cathedral sound that disrupts the dark solitude
Crawls it over like a victim of roman times
And the colors of the painter relaxing on the lap of the exotic lady
Waking the next morning with my vision lost which resembles
To my dialogue with poetry on Sunday...!

Fatal Horse

hen I was here
In front of me was my time,
In that world when I wasnt there
In the trojan war
Inside the dreamless trojan horse.
Were I dismantled the fatal dreams
Of the loss of Ithaca.
I saw Helena treespassing over the wall
Saw her...covered with a transparent cloth
behind which her fatal beauty
was shining like stars for Achilles
And endless writters that scream
With their majestic verses time after time.
The writters day never ends
In the magic twentyfour hours
while designing all kinds of wonders
Including the road to return in the country of passions
I saw Helena in the sweetest moments
Behind which was hiding with anxiety
A lustfull body of love
And a mountain of enigmas never unveiled.
This is why I never withdrew my desire
To walk together with the wind of ice ages
And become acquainted with the rivers of lies
Which dissolved our spirit and the fatal river
In our nameless roads. Without Helena!
With numbness from our escape off legends
And the design of fatal horses day and night
That are grunting continuously over our tempted heads.

Enclosed inside the concrete ego
Focus my vision towards emptyness
While eating dried figs
And drinking a glass of wine older than poetry itself
While I glance over Ithaca
And see how the shadow of fatal horse
Navigates as an amateur in the art of life
Towards the burned bedroom of Helena.

bite sometimes my teeth furiously
My toung remains on my teeth sometimes
With a neddle have to sew my toung.
Some days have no desire to, my little angel,
Surprised with myself how I bite my dreams,
Fight with them until bleeding,
Bite them and clash with reality,
Over nights with autumns dreams
And lovely smiles from spring
The hope for victory strangles saddness
I bite the days and nights all together,
Gloomy nights, nights close to dusk,
At times I am bloodened everywhere,
With my heavy, very heavy teeth
Heavier like the rocks of the highlands,
Sometimes the world sleeps at noon,
And there bows the myth of strength resistance
The world is completely confused and shaken,
Sometimes the world forgets the bowing of knees
Falls asleep under the sounds of children songs
Suddenly is dissolved from the bitternes affecting our intestines
Confuses the brain and the mirror image is lost
The tree of life covers the street in a morning full of Sun Dew
And I, sometimes alone clash with the world
And become passionate on the nakedness of poetry.

[Transaldet by Peter Tase, from book, Itchaca of the word]

Godo nuk vjen

Ndue Ukaj

sht furtun, rruga nga Irlanda sht e pakalueshme
Deti nuk kaprcehet me hapa t vegjl, netve me shi
Kur vetmia t prpin si toka e plasaritur nga trmeti
Kur dhembja nuk ka koh as deshifrime shkencore.

Godo nuk vjen, sht von, pritja e ka molepsur
N gjum t rehatshm, prkund ndrrat e mija dhe tuat.
Ai nuk vjen, as nn Pemn e Jets as n teatrin e udirave
Bn gjumin e pritjes q se kupton koha jote... koha jon.
Ti e pret, si nusja dhndrin n shtratin e braktisur,
E ndrron krahhapur tek t sjell thesin e mbshtjell me ndrra
Ku ti fut duart butsisht, si npr flokt e dashura... prehesh aty
Dhe lyp ndrrn tnde, q ngatrrohet npr gishtrinjt e gjat.

Papritur nj pickim ta shtang turpin, dora fluturon nga thesi.
Ti fshin ballin dhe kupton se Godo serdh, as shikimi i tij enigmatik.
Prapseprap nuk bindesh se ndrra jote u fut n thes.
U lidh nyje e prjetshme si ardhja e Godos.

Si vettima kalon prtej lumit t fjalve q ec furishm
Si hapat e tu npr ndrra plot udira drejt rojeve t kohs
Q bjn zhurmn e jets n ndrrn e pritjes.
Dhe kultivon shpresn se Godo megjithat do t vjen.

Jo, Godo nuk vjen, jo...!
Ti qan, qan furishm sa lott t elin nj prrua
Mes mollzave tua dhe rrjedhs s tyre pa cak.
Ku tiktaket e zemrs ndjehen sikur hapat e t panjohurit
N natn e zez si futa kur troket hidhrimi
N t ciln edhe Godo do t merrte n thua dhe prplasej keq.


Ndue Ukaj [1977] was born in the village of Upper Stubell, the district of Viti. Has received the degree of Bachelor of Arts from the University of Prishtina, Kosova, Department of Leters and Philosophy.

Mr. Ukaj has pursued Extensive Graduate Studies in Literature at the same Institution. Is the former Editor of the Identiteti magazine of Art, Culture and Society [2000-2001], published in Prishtina, Kosova. Is a regular contributor of the daily press in Albania and Kosova. Has authored many books on litterature and chritical essays, recently published in Albania, Kosova, Macedonia, Montenegro and in the diaspora. Many of his writing have been commented and translated in the distinguished international media.

During the Serbian occupation of Kosova, Ndue Ukaj has had a significant contribution in the political environment of Prishtina. During the recent years has been living and studying in Sweden. Is the Editor, has reviewed and written many introductions for over a dozen of projects. In 2004 published his book in Albanian, entitled: Biblical Discourse in the Albanian Literature; his works are also included in some anthologies and books of Albanian Poetry. Ndue Ukaj is one of the seven Albanian poets included in the Albanian Romanian Anthology including seven Albanian and Romanian writters respectively [Frumusetea frumusetilor, Bucharest , 2008].

Ndue Ukaj writes poetry, Essays, Prose, is a literary critic and writes articles in European daily press. Has a few writing projects in progress.

Bok i anbanian: Biblical Discourse in the Albanian Literature, AIKD; Kosovo 2004

'The waterfall of $3>phors', M&B, Tirane, Albany, 2008

Book in english, Ithaca of the word, transladet by Peter Tase,lulu.com, 2010.



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