(Interpreted from the days of the week)
by Kristaq F. Shabani Albania
Ancient history should show, should open the windoës to naturally present the brilliancy … Do not suffocate it, to breathe breathily, the way you have acted up to the present, the rays penetrate rashly,the rainboës to magically pour all the colours…
The works of Homer sang to the deities, Heroes who came from braveries, heavenly Dippers, constellations gratefully crafted, mythological subjects... could it be believed today, why it (the ancient) in the dark scene, was demounting the eyes… Badly darkened forever the Illyrians.... on the forehead the lines, poisonous cut... Before the ancient language was written, a pelagic people illuminated… Coming from far away in time, as a powerful prehistoric race …they came when the world rose… When the day shifted the bitter night, began to ride in a golden season…
The explorers dodder, twist in the sensible maturity, in the total denial of the Albanian ancientness, in powerful symptoms of paleness... How could the others borrow our distinguished epos, transforming it into a creature of their appendix? … Oh, this mother tongue, with sounds emerging from the spirit, the language of the horrible Alexander the Great, of the lighting Pyrrhus of Epirus… leaves open-mouthed in 12/12 followers of the breakers of X, with the breeding milk of the breast! This tragedy crafted slyly and transfigured in smoky unreality, will the so called of the merit stop one day? To transfigure the European civilization of the genesis, remaining in dubious shadow? Those who wore the turbans blocked cunningly through the dark centuries the diggings to incur losses to the mythic past glory of the creation, coming…in a impudent submersion… Open the golden cover of the treasure “Pelagic history”, with the value calculated you will remain like a comma, astonished.
The huge walls of the ancient Pantheon built and rose long times ago through the Homeric existence, speak pelagic language, shine the civilization in the word of Herodotus… O you, gods of the mythic world, who called you gods?! You speak with words of daring gods…. Ëith spiritual symbols, the etymology opens the shutters of the ancient Illyrian…in points of the fiery horizon..., where the Sun shines the First... In space travels Erebus, this son of Space, gossips for the ëood-nymph, the overcast of the spiteful clouds… making somersaults into the darkness of the fear! Oh, my good one, poet of ancientness!… Oh, god, with the voice of thunderclap!…Ëe have uttered the famous word of calling the “devil” ; The teacher close to the day, the thinker of the milky goodness … the murderer, is he a son of the earth? I wonder with the descendant from the sky, waits for the sorehead traveller to return, the bashful from the fear… Can you haunt the weak paleness?
Why did you take the songs, ballads, eposes? You made them your property with insane intention? You tortured my downy feelings, you humiliated creations of bursting intellect, you suffocated the Sun that rose for the first time in the peak, you crippled the Moon mortally in five cuts, lying in the reanimation of the sky, and you robbed it from the star in the trap you raised! … Oh, My brave and heroic songs, created only for mine own,… not for the strangers, you transformed them pertly like yours, figured with stolen symbols, my fragile Songs emerged from my beautiful soul gurgling, you changed their creator …, in a flash … in centuries of existence, my right stepped with the predatory actions of the dismemberment inserted in them the sly movements of the fox, …to darken my flourishing … But my flourishing, sooner or later, will “recover” the signals of recovery are being heard. The falsity will fall like tin… for centuries covered with drama, blood and numerous tragedies, states, created after a long time since my birth, chimed in with them.... This is a saying of our good gods... that gently forgive the sins!
But my ancientness, will never forgive you who have tried throughout the centuries to take my spiritual world; to close doors and windows, and abandoning me in open sky, dismembering me brutally with the wolves’ teeth; by “bestoëing” me only pain, loneliness and disappointment…
The treasure of pelagic history is opened…The truth will not frighten you … in the archive of time you have closed it ... Now, it will be freed: To know only once, once and forever, ... your tiny selves ...
What of radiance has covered the Globe from this Albanian narration… in loud voice! In the first notes sheet of melody of the worlds: “The first soloist!”