Poezi nga Dashnor Selimi

MBI  BUZËT  E  TUA  ULET  PRILLI

POEZI  NGA  DASHNOR SELIMI                                                                              

LINDËS

Fytyra jote kaq qelibare,

 çtë bëj,ta kthej në pasqyrë ëndërrimtare?!                           

Qerpiku yt, si një aisberg,                                                                                                                 

e marrin zogjtë ulen mbi degë.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Flokët e tu,si flatra vallëzore,                                                                                                                    i marr me vete në ditë shënjtore.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        E ngrohtë,përherë kjo zemra jote,                                                                                                     mbështes dhe dhimbjen nëpër morte.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Si tel kitare, gishtat në harkun me hënë,                                                                                          më zgjuajnë nga gjumi e kthehen në këngë.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Buzët e tua,aromë trëndafili,                                                                                                             vjen mbi to dhe ulet prrilli.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Ky zëri yt,si një zë bilbili,                                                                                                                   po ul dhe zogjtë mbi lule bliri.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Hedh hapin tënd,ti si kunadhe,                                                                                                         të tjerë më thonë se është sorkadhe.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             E jam i lumtur,jetoj me shpresë                                                                                                        mbi buzët e tua,unë le të vdes...

PËR   NJË   LOT    MË  KISHIN   FTUAN                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          E nisa për udhë të largët                                                                                                               zemrën time.                                                                                                                                      Në Eden ky shpirti im.                                                                                                                       Mbi buzë dafine                                                                                                                                  rënkon dhimbja e brishtë...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Për mall mori me vete                                                                                                                  flatra ëngjëlli e nëpër driza                                                                                                                rrëmbeu një vjollcë të fshehur.                                                                                                          Të fshehur ishin dhe zogjtë                                                                                                                nëpër jargavanë,                                                                                                                                të përndezura qershitë mbi degë                                                                                                       thërrmojnë sytë e thëllëzave...                                                                                                           E nisa për udhë të largët                                                                                                                       zemrën time.                                                                                                                                      E ndalën tre qeparisa                                                                                                                         në varrezat e Goricës...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              ... për një lot e kishin ftuar.                                       

ËNDËRR                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Syri prush                                                                                                                                           përgjonte hënën tinzare,                                                                                                                    në qiellin e gushtit,                                                                                                                             kur drapri i artë kosiste yjet.                                                                                                              Vargjet e mia zgjasin duart                                                                                                               në oaze të fshehta,                                                                                                                             buzëlulet me vesë.                                                                                                                                    Në shtegun e natës                                                                                                                                       dridhej lofata e porsaçelur.                                                                                                                                        në sytë e maces.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Oh!Ata sytë e ty                                                                                                                                 dua ti flladis me zjarrminë e çastit                                                                                                  e dhimbjen tënde ta mbaj mehlem.                                                                                                         Në të gdhirë                                                                                                                                        zogjtë do të ulen mbi ata sy.             

VATRA   ME   PRUSH   TË   SHUAR                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Këmbët e erës                                                                                                                                     më çuan në vendlindje.                                                                                                                      Aty buzë vatrës                                                                                                                                   gjeta thënjgjij të shuar.                                                                                                                      Thënjgjijt mbuluar me thinja                                                                                                                        i mora në prehrin tim.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Lotët e mallit                                                                                                                                      bien si fletë lulekuqe,                                                                                                                          për t'u çopëzuar                                                                                                                                  në dritën e një qiriri.  

SHETITJE     MËNJGJESI                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Era belëhollë                                                                                                                                       përkundej mbi pasqyrat e syve të mij.                                                                                              Lotët e atij fillim-marsi                                                                                                                      shkundeshin mbi lule bajamesh,                                                                                                       si një vesë e porsarënë,                                                                                                                       që kërkon të shuaj etjen                                                                                                                     mbi buzët e trëndafilave.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Më varej mbi qerpik                                                                                                                           trupi i fildisht i agimit,                                                                                                                       tek rrëmbeva yjet                                                                                                                               në puthjen e mënjgjesit.                                                                                                                     Nga ballkoni ngrihej dielli.                                                                                                                mbi supet e  erës                                                                                                                              tirrej një fjollë mjegulle.

NË QIELLIN MBI QYTET                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Nata ndezi dritat.                                                                                                                               Zogjtë të trembur                                                                                                                               zbritën nga lartësitë                                                                                                                           duke kërkuar ujë nëpër hone.                                                                                                                        Për të mbështetur krahët                                                                                                                   qëndruan në muret e heshtjes.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Qëndruan në dritaren time për një çast.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Cicërojnë,por ëndrrat e tyre                                                                                                               enden në qiellin mbi qytet.                                                                                                                Ishte e plagosur kujtesa e tyre                                                                                                           nga frika,nga nata                                                                                                                             me sytë e saj të kobshëm.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Një mbrëmje                                                                                                                                      dashurova këtë botë të vogël.                                                                                                                        Nata mëkatare me sytë e saj                                                                                                             mendimet m'i mbuloi.                                  

NË   VISET   E   ËNDRRËS   TËNDE                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Lërmë të hyj                                                                                                                                       në viset e ëndrrës tënde.                                                                                                                     Ti je si një mështeknë e bardhë,                                                                                                        si klithma e vetmuar e pyllit.                                                                                                             Unë s'jam bar i tretur në dimër.                                                                                                        Digjem si toka,digjem si deti...                                                                                                   Në dhomë është vendosur qielli,                                                                                                            kanë zbritur dhe yjet,ndërsa hëna                                                                                                     më sjell në sy shkëlqimin e pragmënjgjesit.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Princ i ditës në u bëfsha                                                                                                                     trokut të thundrave të kujtesës                                                                                                 era dhe zogjt do të mi marrin strehshtëpie.                                                                                       Përse këlthet,lërmë të hyj                                                                                                                  në viset e ëndrrës tënde.                                                                                                                     Hija rrëshqet nën këmishë,në heshtje                                                                                                           dielli i shpirtit tim.                                                                                                                                                                  MIKJA     E VETMISË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              Erë,                                                                                                                                                     pyje,                                                                                                                                                    male,                                                                                                                                                   ujra e përrenj,                                                                                                                                     kreshta të thinjura,                                                                                                                            vite më parë...                                                                                                                                     Një pellg uji                                                                                                                                        vështron pikëllueshëm nga qielli.                                                                                                      Hijet vijnë rrotull,                                                                                                                         këputen pas kokamalesh.                                                                                                                  Retë e prera për këmishë,                                                                                                                  për shami dhëndërrie...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Ligjërojnë kanarinat                                                                                                                          në pragmbrëmje                                                                                                                                 sonetin e një piano.                                                                                                                                Tej në horizont                                                                                                                                   mikja ime e vetme,                                                                                                                            trëndafili i sapo çelur, HËNA!                                                          

RA     NJË    LOT    PULËBARDHE                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Ra nata në heshtje.                                                                                                                            Malet shkundën vështrimet                                                                                                               mbi një djep të gurtë.                                                                                                                         Rezet e hënës këputen                                                                                                                       mbi tastjerën                                                                                                                                              e pentagramit të lotit.                                                                                                                             Vishet me dhimbje dallgësh të virgjëra.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Në dritëyllin e këputur                                                                                                                       ra një lot pulëbardhe...                                                                                                                                                          

POETËT                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Poetët veshin me një tis mjegulle                                                                                                      metaforat,si zogjtë e viseve të largëta                                                                                               veshur me dëborë etane.                                                                                                                    Shkruajnë me patos për vajzat e bukura,                                                                                         për sytë e tyre si lulet e majit,                                                                                                    për buzët që shuajnë etjen                                                                                                                 në flakët e zjarrit të dimrit,                                                                                                                për puthjet që ruajnë ende gjakimin                                                                                                si të jenë kredhur në ujë të akullt,                                                                                                     për gjokset e diellta                                                                                                                                   të vjedhura në pejsazhet e stinëve,                                                                                                     për duart që u dridhen                                                                                                                                   në thëllimet e shpirtit erotik...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Por poezia më të madhe                                                                                                                    shkojnë dhe e varrosin për dashuritë                                                                                                            që një ditë i tradhëtuan                                                                                                                      për t'u mbytur tërësisht                                                                                                                     në ëndrrën e errësirës.      

U   UL   HËNA   MBI   DJEP                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Heshtje!                                                                                                                                              Kris në kërcell                                                                                                                                     trëndafili i agut.                                                                                                                                  Përkundet një djep,                                                                                                                            një fëmijë.                                                                                                                                           Qumësht s'kishte gjiri i nënës.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Ulet hëna si kurorë.                                                                                                                           Me qumështin e saj të florinjtë...                                                                                                       ...vë fëmijën në gjumë.                                                                                                                     

ZHYTJA     E    PARË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Lumi Dëshnica  ishte çarë si një shegë.                                                                                            Brenda tij notoja si një peshk.                                                                                                           Pashë fytyrën time të përzhitur                                                                                                         nga syri i diellit                                                                                                                                   e rend me ngutje                                                                                                                                tek syri i territ.                                                                                                                           Mes zallit koral                                                                                                                                   një kurorë perandorake                                                                                                                     thurur  me algat në shkëlqimin                                                                                                        nga luspat e peshqve.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Gërvish gurët                                                                                                                                     me çurkën e ujit                                                                                                                            në zhytjen e parë...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         ...pellgu tashmë tharë në kujtesë.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      HI    MBI    KUJTESË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           Ra hiri mbi kujtesën time                                                                                                                        dhe mbuloj gjithëçka.                                                                                                                                Në syrin e kuq të vetëtimës                                                                                                                    zgjohej kambana,                                                                                                                               si një degë e tharë prej dimri.                                                                                                                        Ishte  kthyer në një tel violine.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Një shigjetë këlthet                                                                                                                             kur malet qajnë,                                                                                                                                 me lot dëbore.                                                                                                                                           Kryqëzohet magjia e përrallës                                                                                                       me syrin e mprehtë                                                                                                                            që s'është më i kaltër.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Bie shi.Tek porta e varrezave                                                                                                                        më ndalin për pak çaste                                                                                                                     figura njerëzish të kthyera në statuja           .                                                                                               Erdhi nëna dhe më përqafoi                                                                                                              ...si dikur me lot në sy.

 TEHZGJAHU    PUNON    NËN     HËNË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Tehzgjahu u bë fije-fije                                                                                                                      si dallgët e holla të Nilit,                                                                                                                    siç humb nëpër dete Danubi,                                                                                                             Misisipi,Drini, Vjosa...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Qilimi është lënë përgjysmë                                                                                                              ngatërruar me fole merimangash,                                                                                                           të prera me thikë nga mola.                                                                                                               Si tufa bari të thatë                                                                                                                            leshë shpërndarë deri në fërgjitë                                                                                                        e hajatit dritëmekur.                                                                                                                          Trarët si rojet besnikë të viteve                                                                                                          bashkohen me dhimbjen e motshme,                                                                                                           me fijet e këputura të kohës.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Një dritë hëne e bekuar                                                                                                                        ulet për natë mbi tehzgja dhe e vë të punoj.                                                                                     

DËSHIRA    E     DIKURSHME                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Është vyshkur kurora                                                                                                                                    në fytyrën e bukurisë,                                                                                                                                    atje ku frymon dhimbja.                                                                                                                    Zjarr nga brenda                                                                                                                                në trupin e vet,në gjak.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Odiseu pret Trojën të zhuritet në flakë.                                                                                                   

FILXHANI    I      MORTIT                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Puliten sytë.                                                                                                                                        Qepallat mbajnë fort mendimet,                                                                                                       siç mbaj unë në dorë kafenë e ftohtë.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Fërgëllojnë bulzat mbi kajmak                                                                                                          aq sa krisën mbi shuplaka.                                                                                                                     Ah!Ky filxhani i mortit.                                                                                                             Më ka mbetur në buzë                                                                                                                       si akullimë mbi një qilim bari.

NËNA     DHE     DJEPI                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        Nëna dhe djepi                                                                                                                                   dy ikona që i shoh përherë,                                                                                                                si fëmija në prehër të Jezu Krishtit,                                                                                                  që më mëkon shenjtëri,përvuajtje.                                                                                                    Ai,ai djep që më rriti...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Ulem pranë dhe e vështroj.                                                                                                                      ''Tani ti s'je më foshnjë''-më thotë.                                                                                                   Bëj të përlotem,të qaj si dikur,                                                                                                           por dielli i shtëpisë më mungon.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Nëna më vjen në qepallat e syrit                                                                                                       më pëlkund në ninullë.                     

DY    RRUGËZGJIDHJE                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     Ngatërrohet era me trungjet e pemëve.                                                                                            Në laboratorin tim poetik                                                                                                                  më dëfren liria.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Thellë dëshira ime ka dy rrugëzgjidhje...                                                                                          Të jem korb që këndon në dasmë,                                                                                                     sesa bilbil në funeral.

Ç'DO   TË   NDODH   NESËR                                                                                  I qetë hedh vështrimin mbrapa.                                                                                                            Jeta ime s'ishte bosh                                                                                                                          edhe pse nëpër palët e trupit tim                                                                                                       më zhbirojnë me thonj trishtimi.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  S'dua të vdes shpejt,                                                                                                                           jo se kam frikë prej saj,                                                                                                               por kjo fjalë më mundon...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Ç'do të ndodh nesër?!                                                                                                            

VJESHTË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               U këput një gjethe.                                                                                                                             Kryqëzohej syri im                                                                                                                             me pemën,                                                                                                                                          aty ku ishte fshehur                                                                                                                           zjarri i stinës.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Pemët përreth u ngjethën.                                                                                                                        Peng po mbanin                                                                                                                                 syrin tim.                                                                                                                                            Si erdhi kaq shpejt                                                                                                                              koha e gjethrënies...                                                                                                                           Vjeshtë!

NJË    JETË   TË    TËRË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Ah,kjo mbrëmja                                                                                                                                 si qerpik i mbyllur                                                                                                                              në një perde të errët.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      Në agun e mëngjesit                                                                                                                          hapet qarku i shpresës.                                                                                                                     I humbur nëpër maja,                                                                                                                                    e ankthshme ,me sfida,                                                                                                                      e dridhshme,me urrejtje.                                                                                                                   Kjo nata me qark të mbyllur.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Një jetë të tërë në vuajtje.                                                                                                                  Zemra ime mat qetësinë.                                                                                                                  

FLAS    ME     MURET                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          Ti ike!                                                                                                                                                  Peng mbajnë muret                                                                                                                           zërin tënd.                                                                                                                                           Aty janë fshehur                                                                                                                                 lumenjtë e dritës.                                                                                                                                Yjëzimet e lagështisë                                                                                                                                dridhen mbi sytë e mij.                                                                                                                        Muret dhe zëri yt.                                                                                                                               Brenda suvasë të çarë                                                                                                                                    një mister i ethshëm..                                                                                                                                    Magjia e zërit tënd.                                                                                       

PUSI    I    THARË                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                U tha dhe pusi i fundit.                                                                                                                      Tashmë ka mbetur lakuriq                                                                                                                me një kovë të ndryshkur                                                                                                                  që vërtitet në zbrazëti                                                                                                                         për të thyer dhëmbët e gurëve                                                                                                           që bluhen nga reumatizma.                                                                                                                   Merimangat shkruajnë                                                                                                                        biografinë e fundjetës.                                                                                                                        Ulur këmbëkryq në parvazin e gurt                                                                                                  hija e gjyshes...                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Tek-tuk ulen zogjtë,                                                                                                                           por drunjtë e tij janë kalbur.                                                                                                                    Vetëm kokërrimat e korbit                                                                                                                        kanë gjetur strehë nën një re të zezë.                                                                                                    Ul kovën siç e ulte dikur gjyshja.                                                                                                      Pusi i tharë.                                                                                                                                        Hëna e kishte pirë ujin!?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Hëna!                                                                                                                                                  U përplas në fytyrën time                                                                                                                       si zjarri që digjet në amshim.                                                                                                                                                                                                        

BUKURIA    DHE    MISTERI                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             Bukuria dhe misteri janë aq pranë                                                                                                          si muzgu e nata që bëjnë dashuri.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 Kur nata fillon të lëshojë yjet nëpër qiell                                                                                           syri i agut pret bukurinë përtej honit të zi.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   Fillojnë të zbërthehen gur më gur                                                                                                     bukuria dhe misteri.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         Malet përreth gajasen.                                                                                                                       Kullojnë muzikë dhe harrojnë urinë e dimrit.         

FJALA   E    FUNDIT                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            Loti etjen shuan lëndinave,                                                                                                               qielli i shpirtit më fëshfërin,                                                                                                               refleksi i përgjakur i një ylli                                                                                                               lule malli  mbi varrin tim.