Agron Shele (Albania – Belgium)
President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”
Agron Shele was born in October 7th, 1972, in the Village of Leskaj, city of Permet, Albania. Is the author of the following literary works: “The Steps of Clara” (Novel), “Beyond a grey curtain” (Novel), “Wrong Image” (Novel) , “Innocent Passage” (Poetry), Whiste stones ( poetry) RIME SPARSE –
Il suono di due voci poetiche del Mediterraneo (Poesie di Agron Shele e Claudia Piccinno), La mia Musa (“Libri di-versi in diversi libri” – Italy, 2020); “Ese-I and Ese-II) ” . Mr. Shele is also the coordinator of International Anthologies: “Open Lane- 1,” “Pegasiada , Open Lane- 2 , ATUNIS magazine ( Nr 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 )” and Atunis Galaxy Antholgy 2018, 2019, 2020. He is winner of some international literary prizes. Is a member of the Albanian Association of Writers, member of the World Writers Association, in Ohio, United States, Poetas del Mundo, WPS, Unione world Poetry and the President of the International Poetical Galaxy “Atunis”. He is published in many newspapers, national and international magazines, as well as published in many global anthologies: Almanac 2008, 2017; World Poetry Yearbook 2009, 2013, 2015, The Second Genesis -2013, Kibatek 2015-Italy, Metafora (Poland), Keleno- Greece, etc. Currently Resides in Belgium and continues to dedicate his time and efforts in publishing literary works with universal values.
Translated by Peter Tase
- This time…
This time ,
When you hear the rain that falls over the bare trees from a bronze sky
And the rows of ravens all yellow
You ask yourself
Why only a tree stands tall ?
In an empty park , lonely rotting day by day
Why do you care ?
Maybe because that reminds you the time that has passed
And you feel more older than ever
Like a lonely bird abandoned when the winter comes
Surviving is the only chance
This time ,
When your thoughts are lost
And your face shows nothing more than sadness
In pale colours remained tattoo over your filthy skin
That is when you feel the touch of the last season
That is what reminds you of the long starry nights
All of this turns your spirit blue
….when the time passes
You can only see a rainbow that stares over an old church
Acrylic glass
You can only hear the whispers of monks as they go
But you can’t hear the bell
What does that mean ?
You feel like an old abused statue with crossed arms
You wait for your sins to be forgiven
If only it was that easy
But no , your demons consume your soul every day
Your disgusting devious eyes only stare at one thing
The only
The innocent saint Magdalene.
- I know…!
I know
One day , you will understand
Feathers stay as proof of a flying bird
Lost far away from the horizon
No turning back
No shelter
Very angry
Far away
Anxiety of an escaped shadow
I know
That this emigration has nothing in common with rainy days
Neither the blooming flowers
It is an unusual escape towards time , when the air smells the pain of earth .
Death of innocent leaves under the meaning of life until madness
I know
that the darkness brings lonely nights
No light , that gives you hope
No dreams , that give you freedom
No tomorrow
But only a dawn related to the shadows of life in chaos .
It feels like the poison of broken hopes
I know
that scream will destroy the walls of broken memories
And what is dead will return to life
No more envy trapped in a spider web
And the voracious crowds and Kings without crowns.
- A woman
Do not expect her to walk
in the cold streets with her scarf over one shoulder
Or tap the heels on the silent memories
nor mirroring her image in the shops window
because her effulgence
is stronger then the sun
that warms the ice transforming it in to a candle, touching the marrow of the earth
breaking the myths of winter
that die at the irises and yet,
are resurrected
to embrace the light.
An image that appears at the shine of stars
and with her the wind extends the hair
to a forest where the deers are sleeping
the tracks of their hooves are printed on the snow
like a magic hidden in lightning
slaves of fate and troubled dance
towards that image
that god himself created
holiness
in the kingdom of every living breath.
Do not expect her to be weakened
because pain walks with her blood
and the blood with the feeling of eternity
like a deity
of the force that lifts gods to their feet,
the angels, everyday,
understanding the silence
of the turn of centuries
because the life is more than one attempt
that walks through the gates of the rainbow
and opens the doors of life
to the smile of a woman!
- TO THE GATE OF ORACLES
A breath has come from a distant whisper
and a ray that descends through the lights of attractive mornings
it is the very first bar of light ,
hidden behind the clouds ascended above
Navigating through spaces that are felt by wings
and descends in the frontiers of a mind amid the clarity named hope
depicted through organs that swallow every sound and color
of the worldly, where we are almost lost.
As a suffering letter escaping from the erosion of time
we depict our invisibility
and are excited about items gone and identify us today
the solair creek , of that sun ray turned into broken pieces
mirrored again tomorrow
and other explorations
will break the succumbed era,
as a symbol and fiery desire
to remain
as a trace of that life were a roving echo
will eulogize again the ancient land.
And when the largest gate of freedom
opened through gods and oracles standing above,
would convince the heart, that everything passes through angels that cross
through universe
then all source will be revived
and soul
into fire and shivering
would be the only brightness that will shine the world .
- GOD
Every time we see the darkness of colours
and gorgeous become unsurpassed abysses
a simple eye returns towards you,
to you God,
and piety of hands of human weakness of its own shivering
from the peaks of sky were your throne has risen
and pray
for the light of salvation,
while forgetting that fait hand their are nearby the heart
and branches of generations reaching up to you,
hidden roots
fractured desires
daily deaths in every instant
and awakening with first sunrise
to push the wheel of world forward.
to bring a soul that is delighted
and grabs another one in order to return into a sand and elaborate the image.
Bells are sounding more often these times
And attention focused towards her sounds, echoes of abandoned streets for much time
eternal music that goes through the summit covered by angels
spread into genres, that inserts deeper into the niches of memory
and thoughts are erupting our senseless acts,
moving on a chandelier that brightens the wounds of a wrinkled moon
to show that mysterious travel
departed towards the gates of marble
and looking upon turns that gated windows from other world
Someone is calling in this pat hand turbulence
You name it: absolute, light, sorrow or silence
but he will scream again,
because the stained creature has placed him in danger
heavily without any hope, without a light, without a soul
and suddenly today returned has face towards him,
to gather the blessing and forget it tomorrow,
while God is ascending with his nails and struggling
towards the divine justice
towards the limits of our fragile flesh
where everybody is a dust lost in the winds
and every life is a relinquishing of a blessed breath.
- TOGETHER WITH THE WIND
… why are you hiding from the sky’ s blue
the god will descend again
will follow that light in the last floor
and will get drunk from his muse,
lira will fill in musical chords
all sub floors and
the soul knows, as a soul dodging while flying
you will turn the world crazy as always.
The a scream will become a windy echo
and will follow into ether
the shadows of an insect drawn into a nymph
that turns around seven seas,
and when the white wave would relax in the shore
were gods are stepping
a red beauty will rise atop the wings
and will shine the whole life.
Not a pen, nor ink, not a pencil cannot describe
the one turned on and extinguished
as you destined fates and turned off wars
just like a Hellenist,
and the wings are open through the gates of sun
were you always opened a door
fort he one that came just like the last God
and was lost together with wind.
- Never Ask a Poet !
Never ask a poet about the daylight ,
How the dawn rises early
How the sun kills you with its warmness
How you can see the half paths remaining in the past where you first left them
That vision where your eyes start to sparkle and you feel more alive than ever
Never ask a poet about the days that go from the deepest twilights all covered in pity , a lonely moon drowned in a plain lake burned alive with the flames of a fallen star
like a permanent shadow of a repentant woman
Never ask a poet how sad is the world
How his pain holds the name of autumn
Like a fallen angel lost in a world he can’t fit in
His pieces distributed everywhere and you can hear his scream carved as a chapter in a sad book
Most importantly , never ask a poet about love
It breaks your heart,
leaks like a sin over a rainbow full of colours
Suicidal seasons shine from the innocent spirits and gods knocked down until forever.
- Someone is calling
At the height of the joy someone shouts:
I’m out of breath
Im dying
and the whole ether
it is a peace of mind
from whence descends the darkness of the stairs of heaven
that he never saw
but wandered to the ground.
At the height of despair someone shouts:
I live
I have hope
I know how to cross that path that brought me
to touch the colors of the whole world
and snatch from it the blue of the sky
sea blue anyway,
you make one
as the color of that soul
that prompted me to shoot
instant
as ionized bit
and part of the dialectic of the voice fragment.
In the savagery of innocence time
which brought me quite by accident
and it will surely bring me back to the yellow dust of the cosmos
the name of my genesis will be written as a sign of that blessing
which remained to a leaky belief in the sewerage fountain
to melt the nostalgia of the echo of the avalanches falling on the rough rocks
my fear
more than a worldwide effort
came as a haunt of that little place
sewing floral lawns
and childhood steps
that bring me back to the sacred nostalgia.
- White Light
A white light,
Wakened in the waters of my soul,
Over the wings of a flying bird
Just as once before…
A mirror of a reborn life in turmoil
Just as today…
Kidnapped from warm verses in rebellion.
White hope,
A voice of life colors without borders
An open canvas of colors brighten
Beautiful
Just as dreams of nights of no return
Thunderstorm,
Of a burning star, steaming hot.
White word,
Raised in the high benches of thoughts
Carved in ancient mythology of trust
Poured,
In fiery horizons of the west.
White life,
a broken mirror of crossed fates
a deep sea of kidnapped sorrows
just as snow…
Dissolved in the first rays of craziness
Just as a leaf…
Lost in a freezing autumn universe.
- Autumn in Tirana
Autumn,
In Tirana that is lost in water creeks,
Through extended water drips in the windows of crystals,
In the abandoned benches from all this unrest
In the naked trees all the way to forgiveness.
Autumn
Even its returning tears of meditation instants,
Forgotten old romances in memory,
Returning painfully in the soft spirits
Yellow paper, of my diary.
Autumn,
In Tirana of the earlier steps,
Of a bench that is always naked with green flowers,
Of the last glass dropped through ridges
Pieces of lips, skies of love
Autumn
And longing for passed times,
For the deeming of light in the white soul,
For the life thrown away through angles of reflections,
For the abandoned leaves from all this demise.
Autumn
And traces in every heart beat
For her…for someone…for love,
Of after times that are knocked in so much noise
…and of autumn, e melancholic pentagram.