Afternoons Poem by Riza Braholli

The doors of the gate here and there.
Afternoons get yellow color of muskflower
sprouted on corpses and rotten spirit of woods
of the house with walls and the roof collapsed.

These bitter old womens, tiedlips
weather-beaten fist knocking
each other and take off
the untied shoes;
the same shoes unpolished
bought since long time ago.

Like yesterday, like today
Toddled from the same gate
between open doors where tomorrow
shake a torn veil and colorless,
tired of the relentless winds.

Tired of the same names:
yesterday, today and tomorrow;
folded up and sticked like sheets,
of an old book all mold.

Sitting around the table hungry for light;
Hanging the eyes in silent nails
And waitting of the impossible
Swallow the tasteless coffee.

Comeing and going
through the door to an unknown direction
more miserable than Quixote himself lancebroken.

Translation from Albanian into English
By Alketa Mero