By Xhevahir Spahiu
I am the one who I haven’t been,
Will be the one I am not.
If I were a tree, planted by the river to be,
For hope to blossom, for the leaves of sorrow to fall,
Over bent branches for the snow to go grey, the wind to wail,
At nighttime a dream:
The arrival of spring…
I’d entice birds
To come and build their nests on me,
To sing, play a moment after their spring migration;
Over me water to gush,
My trunk hit by waves.
Birds to leave, in freedom –
to leave…
Children to climb me,
To pull my leaves for their herbariums,
After hours workers to stop for a smoke
With their hands hard as chunks of tree trunks.
On my chest where grizzly bears would lean,
Boys come to lean delicate backs of beautiful girls.
I am the one who I haven’t been,
Will be the one I am not.
Let lumberjacks come, to cut down my trunk,
Below ground,
For rebirth,
Let my roots remain.
With my wood let them build anything,
Anything but coffins;
Overhead I’d like to have open skies,
No shadows beneath,
On tables carved from my bones
Lean your elbows,
Falling in thoughts.
I am the one who I haven’t been,
Will be the one I am not.
November 1972
