THAT ENDS LIKE THIS
I photograph the fallen wall. Why do I hear
The synthetic footsteps of men?
They must be
The last ones. The new heroes.
From within their shirts,
Gratitude emerges for the distributors
Of invitations, a song arises
For the mummies and the severed heads.
Intoxicated by a fishy music,
I watch my drugged friends as they board
Different ships, with what zeal
They clasp in their hands a piece of rock.
Now there’s no sun here. Here
There are only haunted screams, only
Houses of oblivion, only two sources of darkness.
It’s likely that my spirit sets off
In search of black posters, lest
It unexpectedly sees my name.
- English translation by Ukë ZENEL Buçpapaj
