Fatmir R. Gjata was born on March 3, 1966, in Fier, Albania. He completed his studies in his hometown and began working in the petroleum industry, eventually becoming the head of an oil and gas exploration group. From a young age, he was involved in political activities, and in 1990, he became the treasurer of the Republican Party branch in Fier, one of the largest and most influential in the country. He also started writing early, contributing to the newspapers of the time, and played an active role during the political transformations that swept Albania. In 1991, he moved to Italy, where he still lives. For 25 years, he worked as the caretaker of the historic Pino d’Asti Castle, while continuing his studies in political science. Although he eventually left academia, he chose to devote himself fully to literature. Over the years, he has become a prominent voice in Albanian literature. With 11 published books, he stands as a significant figure in the country’s literary landscape. His work has earned him numerous awards across several countries, including Germany, Kosovo, Albania, and Italy, and he has also been honored with the title of Ambassador of Peace.
RUN, BOY
Run boy, run, from your house, from your neighborhood Make out of the city your nest, of the state your season Don’t say goodbye to your parents, to your old man, to your crying mother You will find them in the next season, by the pond Where they will ask charity to the swans.
Fly boy, fly, surprise yourself til you can Of great loves and shining dreams Now that you can ride the time Now that you can fall and rise In a moment alone, like tomorrow Is indefinite and traited By the value of smiles.
Go boy, go, now that you can draw your horizon With the signs taken by scrolls, drink what you know In the glass half full that remained for goodbyes And for the triumphant music that flood the spirit That becomes torrent, that sweeps the margins Of sins, without spite. And when the world will stop you, look at yourself as a man Go back and think of journeys, of woads, of rivers Of the miles you traveled, of ages undefined In small stories, in front of graves Without names, where you will finally find The courage to apologize.
Mine is the journey, the end is others’
The dust deposed in the knuckes, the sight Of winters and soltrices passing, a sense maybe Must leave footsteps, in the sunsets Before the night swallows all, a whisper.
The restleness of the sun, would be weird To becomes visible before disappearing Over the mountains of the north, still spotless from the lasts rains Hidden in the buzzer of the invisibles.
Why controlling the arms in the beginning, better To let them roam free to look for other fates, knowing That is unique to all mortals, arisen Together with the birth, becoming shadow.
To hope?! It would be the end To what?! It would be the beginning So i take delight in the only thing that really belongs to me: the journey.
Defeated
Look at me go, a flag without wing In all the places i loved, missing Since a thousand years, with a thousand faces, there i reincarnated And i will be reborn a water bird in the next life Over the boats, to the edge.
I can’t be silent, way too optimistic yet tired, of wars, incense, dreams
Of the open plagues on the legs It’s not enough a smile to wrap them It’s not enough either the illusion of falling Down on a lover’s arms.
I’m one of the losers’ army, the armour rusty on some corner, the helmet is In some camp hospital where the survivors Crap spelling nonsense About glory, about people, about enemies.
My idols were not heroes, they were Folk from the countryside, kind and restless With salt in their hair, with hay in their nostrils And maybe With the same torments and false hopes They still pray under a tree with its immense foliage Because they still believe their wanderer to be God Incognito, to watch over creation.
WAR
When the world was in war and terror, i was making love some lights left on the ground, in the black sky. And the commanders shouted: - In line! Line up, soldiers! - the length in the middle was halved, injured and killed.
When the world was at peace again, i was making love fireworks were going off all around, they sang for freedom. But still we could not find freedom, where we went we don't know in war it was endless death, now it's sobbing.
Now the trains go between the tracks, i can't find my station so I talk to myself among you, as I said at the beginning. They called me a deacon and a traitor, I survived the war, why didn't I take a rifle and grenades, Why didn't I put a star on my forehead?
Now you are all heroes, with marks, with wounds full of blood, i always stay in my world call me a coward. I always ask you very resentfully: - This world is better!? - nobody answers me either, that it is difficult.
What war will you go to today, wretch, it's war again!? Many other heroes were born, killed by volleys. I will come with you this time, full of anger and bile, to ask you right there in the middle of the battle: - What do you feel this time?
My address
If you ask me some day, and you can't find me I will be in a city full of light, wandering in vain
In the last city to trust, maybe it's in the fairy tale In a neighborhood called hope, and on the street called nostalgia.
There will be no stone castles, nor the villas of the rich I'll be alone by the woven river, some verses with words and music.
Even the river will take me and go, through endless seas and memories I call despair with my mouth, take me through my country.
That I don't know where I was born, oh I don't know I had my eyes closed, I think I never sought the black fate, a lifetime was enough for me.
And this life is looking for the third one, through foam-twisted waves You were looking for a place and address, find string runaway sleepless.
Let him be confused to the end, wandering to the end for wonder That this life often seems a torn garment, when he lives without an address or border.
The bust of the dictator fell.
The dictator's bust fell and they dragged it away Who screamed to the sky, who remained crying Freedom, God, freedom, they shouted in the square I don't know why he became a shadow and lives among us.
The bust of the dictator fell and who had no mercy Books were burned in the fire with anxiety and desire What was not written was left as a gift Let's be like the whole world called that night.
There was a bust of the dictator in bronze and metal And maybe they melted it and threw it in the swamp But dictatorships are known to live on In invisible souls with anxiety and sadness.
The bust of the dictator is being erected again For kings and princes, for ordinary docks They also sing songs that are envious Same as falling in the war, over the black monster.
The bust of the dictator fell and the people were amazed A beautiful time would come with happiness and light But we still remained the same, the same as then Someone became rich, someone remained poor.
The bust of the dictator fell, but his offspring is alive There is no full power, there is not even a star on the forehead He is waiting for the right opportunity to return his time To kill and wait, resurrected again.
O strange people, O people of my country You knocked the king from the throne, full of joy and curse Watch hundreds of kings being dethroned as saints While you are the same, poor and miserable.
I remember
I remember how many times I drowned in nameless seas I remember the stopped breath and what I felt in my heart Remember all the mistakes oh miraculous light I remember all the sins committed by witchcraft.
But you poor people who have never been wrong Tell me; ohhh how much life, you will have to live I remember sins, what do you remember? That the feathers fly but the stone remains in place.
And stones turn to dust in the afterlife If heaven is beautiful, I will find sin That the world is for persons, beautiful and poets Don't say I didn't tell you, in time you poor people.
*** The cherry mouth, colored of lament, I light a match A prayer undone, a breath grown laboured, the bites without a trace. The weightless soul, across infinite spaces, on a freed moan; The sun hides, fear and shame, hold still together.
The senses went mad, they search in vain, they taste perfumes In a timeless flight, forgetful fallen, lost in the maze Of whispered caresses. Oh, who are you truly, and certain is the existence Of the God of lovers, of winged angels, in the sky above us.
Time to create a God
It is time to tear the soul apart and let autumn yellow the hopeless pages, while morning mists leave drops to drink in a single breath.
And the moment that will never flee, memory will align sensations, perfecting them, and in sin will search for the last virtues to create a new God.
Perhaps that is why I look for signs of a time, since history repeats itself and redundant, it makes the pettiness of ugly things shine, forgetting and recreating for the time that remains.
***
There are torches that stay lit Though days of dreams and waking nights while the eyes never cease to gaze icons with calm impenetrable faces, where impossibility and totality rise, divided by a smile.
***
Surrendered to fate, the shadow walks me to the lake, to make me watched by swans. And they, leave me crumbs of soaked bread on the evening shore. And I start to rock the waves, singing lullabies to send them sleep, in a serene pact.
Fevers of the Mind 