THIS MIDNIGHT
This midnight is not merely a midnight; that’s all.
In it, like a somnambulist, my elusive freedom wanders,
In it, your curiosity reading my eyes roams,
In it, a nightshirt that tickles your breasts explores,
My darling.
It’s your trembling question, ‘Aren’t you sleeping? Did I wake you up?’
It’s your trembling question that reads quite well
My polyphasic sleep
And my lack of sleep,
My darling.
But it’s also a crumb of hope, seeking subtle surprises,
An intertwining of dreams with life’s disappointments.
It’s the glow of candles you carry into
This cavern, where darkness squints its eyes,
My darling.
It draws near like an illicit lover,
Exploiting the forbidden, engaging in the undesirable,
Whispers to you the mysteries of mysteries,
Deepening your yearning for indulgence and concealed missteps,
My darling.
Oh, this midnight is my very madness,
A madness seeking to measure your beauty
With that famed golden ratio:
A/B = B/C.
It’s my portrait you paint with your colours,
My darling.
But it’s also a poem that lures you to learn it by heart,
It’s your finger showing me the secret house of words,
It’s our longing to measure the perimeter of wandering,
It’s a hip-kiss in a masked ball,
My darling.
It’s also a drowsy leaning against elbows,
It’s your whispering desire, ‘Tell me something beautiful!’
When everything around is beautiful,
So beautiful that sometimes I stretch my hands to touch your dream,
And you lie down in the murmurs of this midnight,
My darling.
Oh, the scent of this midnight won’t forsake me,
Nor your breath that serenades:
‘Sleep, poet… sleep… a little later… a little later…’
Why a little later? What’s the reason for ‘a little later’?
The melting of darkness will linger, just as much as ‘a little later,’
My darling?
- English translation by Ukë ZENEL Buçpapaj
