Here it comes again that time of year that time, when the air I breath, turns weird that time, when the words I usually use lose their strength, their feel they start to vanish leaving me, leaving me here That time, when I feel weak, incomplete like I’m missing a limb or another part…
this, precious life of men how frail it is, how fragile, how plain; it breaks, just by a push of wind a vein cut, a missing dream. it shatters, and crumbles to the ground, followed by trains noise the sound of tears or……
I am lost. I really am! The taste of her skin still runs through my lips, and my memories are stuck with her beautiful voice. I stand now in front of her grave. Her grave is closed, her face I can’t see, yet, she still stands in front of me. I am lost. I really…
my friend, when I get old… (if, I have the privilege to get old) I would like to meet you. on a Sunday morning in the cobbled streets of Prizren, or, at the cafeteria in front of the mosque, I would like to meet you. And I would love for you to ask me, “Hi there,…
Get lost you say? Yeah, that can be done but to survive, what’s your plan? In a world that can’t be seen can’t be touched, and can’t be felt huge enough to swallow me would you dare to tread that place? To go there where i could not far from this place that holds no…
How hard is to live and feel, like you have died. To open your eyes each day and see nothing but lies, to go to sleep each night all alone, naked and stripped of your pride how hard is to breath i wonder, how hard is to be alive!
what about faces? well, they change. just like autumn clouds; memories keep getting forgotten, and those whom you have known… well, they usually die.
This, journey of men, how strange it is, how confusing, and yet, how plain! Just a never-ending cycle of walking on top of faces, walking through faces, or walking under faces! Nothing complicated on that. But we tend, we strain ourselves so much, and finally, we complicate things. We are not doing anything special, we…
If i were to die today would you cry for me or laugh in my stead! Would you buy a rose or, cut it somewhere then throw it at my grave as a way to show your grace! Would you stay at my funeral without making a sound alone, or in a crowd? And then,…
What are you? A drop of ink. Nothing more nothing real. A stain, on painter’s shirt; The slow movement of his brush on that white spread sheet, his feelings that can’t be felt his boiling blood with which he paints, his memories which he forgot his life, at which he cried! What are you? A meaningless…
kushtrimthaqi 