Couldn't Become Christ Poem by Riza Braholli

Couldn't become Christ

She, she was...; wasn't written on paper
about her my pen said: I'm powerless you see;
it needs a painter, or even someone better,
madly fond of words, a well-known master,
not one, with a trembling hand, like me.

She'd take your mouth as well as your soul,
it was said that gate squeaked on every night,
curtains couldn't hide bodies' play at all
underneath the moon that poured paint on wall;
melting men and maddening women downright.

For she would entice men with her games
with plays and coquetry, with hair or breast;
her groans then men took up with themselves
and slops of mountains languished in pains
for nights with her wouldn't meet their zest.

And the older whim of those magic words
would cook for vibrant nights and hot beds

I was lucky to meet her in a bypass
with a jar of water leaning on cheek;
I remember it was a Saturday dusk
and from her big eyes, did burst with a fuss
a sun towards me, in the air of a calm freak.

Mary is my name - she sighed that day
my gosh! to myself "Magdalena Mary...! "
to offer me water the jar she did sway
I took it and wanted to stay and to stay
with her like Christ Jesus, I wanted to be.

Shivered, and bowed, in the air to twine,
Looked keenly and never took my eyes away...
What was in her eyes, water or wine?
ran out of words, my lips would entwine
my body was planted with starry inlay.

And I followed her with a burning spirit
and I sprung to her as a big rolling stone
oh wait then she said, here is another lyric
All over I am called a slut, you know it?
Tomorrow no one knows where we end on...

I said "I love you, much more than you know
- But more than I do, you cannot- she said
for you, o good man, I'll be living in awe...
- Yet for you my lass; Christ Jesus become though
Through Golgotha's nails, I'll go to the end.

Behind my ear wind blew on one night
with an evil tongue: "She's a slut... a whore..."
I stopped up my ears, but long was the night
voices filled the rooms, so gossiping the plight
o brother, she's a sinner, don't put her indoor...

I didn't give up; and like Christ I would answer
her sins, I said, are for me to expiate
but crowds of friends would point a finger
throwing stones on her, and a tail on my rearer
like beasts of the forest of shame wouldn't sate.

I stood before them and I did do my best
till knees let me down perfidiously;
I lowered my wings around my chest
overwhelmed by evil that stifled my zest
this time needs no Christ, a saint I can't be.

8/8/2018, Tirana,
Rewritten on a past poetry

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Translation from Albanian into English
By Alfred Kola
Korçë, August 14,2018