Πότε δε δάμασες των διλημμάτων κύματα, Βουτούσα και πνιγόμουν στα μάτια σου τα θαλασσιά Στα μάτια μου εσύ έβλεπες πυροτέχνηματα, Για μένα ήσουν αγιασμένη ζωγραφιά. Στα μάτια σου τα παιδικά,τα άστατα κι' αλήθωραα Καρφώναν τα δικά μου να μείναν εκεί και μόνο Το ψως στις κόρες των ματιών σου της θέας μου σύνορα Μάτωνα να σε έβλεπα στης αντηλιάς το θρόνο. Παροδικά σήματα τα δικά σου συναισθήματα, Στην αφέλεια της τρελής χαράς μου δεν πρόβλεψα Όλο στα μάτια σου διάβαζα ποιήματα Κι' εσύ στα δικά μου γρίφους και σταυρόλεξα. Αν τα βλέφαρά σου δεν έγιναν της αγάπης φυλακή , Αν δεν με έκλεισες στο βλέμμα σου σε γλυκιά ομηρία, Χωρίς να σε ρωτώ, κάθε ευλογημένη Κυριακή, Στα μάτια σου θα μπαίνω να βουτάω στη νοσταλγία. Λευτέρης Σιώμος Κ/70δ π.ελ.
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Τρίτη 10 Μαρτίου 2026
Μπριτζίλντα Ντεντε: «Σε περιμένω»
Κυκλοφορεί από τις εκδόσεις Σμίλη το κοινωνικό μυθιστόρημα του Κώστα Πετρουλά "Η φυλακή των αθώων"
ΔΕΛΤΙΟ ΤΥΠΟΥ
Μωχάμεντ Ραχάλ "Η Περιπλάνηση στην Έρημη Γη"
Η Περιπλάνηση στην Έρημη Γη
Migel Flor " E vetmja dashuri"
E vetmja dashuri
Aty ku humbet magjia është çasti kur pyet për mua. Vargu im jam unë pa moshë, me trillin e shpirtit. Kur më pyet pse shkruaj, ma mbyt poezinë. Njeriu nuk pyetet pse jeton siç do. Kur më pyet sa jam, të "vockël" më quan. Por unë jam aq stinë sa ti veç pranverë të jesh. Kur më pyet nga jam, universin e lëndon. Se globi njerëzor këngën e këndon në një hartë. Kur më pyet: a je çame? atëherë nuk hesht. Si plagë më lëndon dhe vargu gjak më rrjedh. Kur më pyet: a fjete mbrëmë? me bufin duel kërkon. Se errësira eshtë të shohësh nuk e qorron vdekja. Kur më pyet kush jam, një shqipe jam, or ti që vargun zemër e kam dhe fjalën gjak që rrjedh. Kur më pyet nëse e dashuruar jam, përgjigje s’do të marrësh kurrë. Iluzionet janë tretur. Atdheu eshtë familje Dhe familja truall. E vetmja dashuri... Migel FlorHarinder Cheema Poetry
Brief bio
I have no home except what I have walked By the poet Walid Alzoukani – Syria
I have no home except what I have walked
By the poet Walid Alzoukani – Syria
Our home is a bag, on the floor, on a chair, on a table..
We put it down and go to sleep.
So that language doesn't become a nail,
we speak with our fingers.
They say: Where are you from?
We point to the bag.
Our country is on our shoulders, and before us is God's country.
We have no roots.
Our legs are not made of wood, nor of prayers.
What drives us to become firewood?
***
The poor dig their days with the axes of despair,
and nurture hope in their children's beds.
The remains of birds that planted joy in their beaks
Great graveyards swayed in their heads, waiting for God.
The muezzin rings the sky with a copper crescent,
But God, as he tending the stars in the pastures of eternity,
had cast down the rebellious point and said:
Be pale blue, be a graveyard for the disobedient
but it slipped away from him, and it became the earth.
***
O pale dot, O earth, O spring of water and cloak of greenery,
Where are you going?
Your waters are stagnant, and your cloak is worn.
And when the angels whispered to him:
“The rebels are about to open the bottle of matter.”
he thought of becoming a highwayman,
but he could not set foot in the crowd of minarets and bells and spy towers and antennas.
He saw how death plants its instruments among their instruments,
hanging them with threads of pain, so he gave it the word and ascended.
Death was nothing but a beautiful god,
A blind god, driving an eternal ambulance, Rarely late.
***
I have no home, no homeland except what I have walked,
But dust is a blind eraser, Carrying the crutch of the sky and walking behind me,
The she camel of the air carries the aging earth on its back
like a straw basket of sand and remorse,
My house is not walls and ceiling
It is a path, and the horizon is my window.


