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This (is not) a poem about Palla Tail

2022-06-21 21:53:37Pikëpamje SHKRUAR NGA KLODI LEKA
This (is not) a poem about Palla Tail
This (is not) a poem about Palla Tail

Military area, Adriatic, Bisht` i Pallës.

July afternoon, gold coin

with king profile, in the closed mouth of a child

who does not know where he is going.

(To those who know it hurts).

April afternoon-toe with newly cut toenail

on a Persian rug full of flutes and birds.

This is the Tail of the Palm, this is the name of the bay

afternoon to afternoon

surrounded by dry hill revani: and the sea ahead

like glass in the newly framed frame in an agency

travel.

Closed all happiness in a test tube of sadness,

wet sand to cartilage

and sea urchins fall into the breasts, and thousands of bottles

plastic,

without any message,

and baby dolls with rubber eyelids,

and dog tracks in the sand dunes the sea,

and broken shell teeth.

My struggle with lies and forgetfulness

produces poetry for my breast

hermetic of the Tail of the Palm.

Ervin Hatibi

Bishtpallë, 2005. The old jade of the line "Spring" - Porto-Romano took us to the Hospital and left us at the last station, a kind of square with a pub, shop and two roads to access the sea. The road on the left leads to the Hills, small masses of (de) militarized clay across the Adriatic, now with one-story newcomer houses, whose brown eyes starve to death in the blue. The hill is split by a winding path that leads to the shore, where a people is reborn in the miracle of that July afternoon. Their skin had never been saturated with sunshine, so cheerful jargon and fish and watermelon-flavored relaxation. There was a time when the poor flocked en masse to the beach with frozen water gourds wrapped in newspaper, a loaf of bread and sausage and a sheet tied to four poles to mourn.

Right, the road to Bishtpallë. The cousins ​​where my parents took me on vacation only brought me here once, and the memory of that day is etched in my brain like an eternal forgetfulness, with the sand as a Sahara and the sky above you, the belt of pines in the lagoon, the candles and kelp, fragments of old Roman walls bought by mosses and fishermen like strange pelicans over a shallow and mysterious sea. Eighteen years later, of course, I did not expect to find the same dark romance of 2005. The forest, uprooted to the point that not even an orphaned pine tree could be seen, and the rugged terrain had given way to a new port. oil, with oil tankers remotely resembling a plague-stained white city.

But finally, on the horizon rises the cape of Bishtpallë, a strip of clay purchased from the bushes and surrounded on both sides by the sea. To graze the eyes with the relief in which the myth tells us that he, Paul of Damascus, along the missionary weave through the Mediterranean had stopped here as well, you have to climb a hill next to it. Where is a tavern located. And below the tavern two armies of cars and chaise lounges. On the left slope of the bay, written in large letters, the name of the tavern. On the other side the beach without any umbrellas and at the end of it the rugged relief of the cape. I go downstairs, pitch a tent, open a beer, laugh to myself about Paul's thick cape on Pall's tail, and rejoice in the blues at the thought that for the next four hours I'll get rid of the rump.

However, it is futile to hope that you will be able to escape the clutter and clutter of the day to catch the sun in this land of ours. Not even five minutes and a man close to sixty avites to declare - not to show, or explain, but to declare - that it is not permissible to set up a tent there. Who are you? - I ask. God, he tells me. The lord of the cape? Yes, the lord of the cape. Cape, cape ?! Ore you, lower the tent and cut your neck I told you, where are you from? - he dug at me alluding to my speech. The quarrel would not end so much if the figure of a woman, so characteristic of the conflicting folklore of Balkan men, was not inserted in the middle: my girlfriend, who calls the police. Burreci retreats threatening his boys, we stick to the belief that the law is a phone call away. I sit down to light a cigarette, nervous, with street clothes,

It may be superfluous to think, but just a phone call away saved us from the fate of the dramatic duel between the creator of the Old Testament world and the man who will eat from his garden, the bajloz and Gjergj Elez Alia, the Arab and Mrsosa, the stoic son of Alber Kamya , whose evil cassava can catch you anytime on the roads of the homeland, even during a Sunday at the beach like this, where suddenly the normality of the desire to live remains in the hand and takes on the appearance of a new, grotesque reality, violent, who if you do not put fever in the abdomen, forces you to cut the forehead of a Catalan. A phone call away and absurd literature could be rewritten on Bishtpalla beach. A long distance call and reason could have failed - as it failed, in these lines, throwing me into fantastic realism - if it were not for him,

Before leaving, after four hours I sit on sedre issues, gazing with the feeling of loss at the cape, the hills, the turquoise water, a trillion grains of that white sand and the trees where Paul's dream continues to sleep, as an inner need for him save not so much childhood memories, but the memory of that ruined day like hundreds of other days in the face of a future where none of this will remain on the face of the earth and the new nature of cement, rubber, iron, oil, money dirty, social segregation, will wash them all away. On the way back, from the rear window of the car, I noticed that on a dirty beach, under the shade of oil tanks, some tentmakers were thirsty for the last rays of the sun.


Në përputhje me standarded JTI

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