Azem Shkreli was born in 1938 and it can be said (and must be said!) that he is the most “Shkreli” of his Shkrelis.


Already in the sixties of the last century he surprised with the "Blossom" and especially the "The White Caravan". He then climbed the stairs to our low literary heaven and kept raising the heads of the crowd, despite greedy reproaches and the occasional criticism.


But he was merely doing the writer's job: deepening the impression, giving the thought a clear direction and creating an unquestioned identity with the power of the word and making our Albanian language feel comfortable in his metaphors.


In the architecture of poetic thought he opened his own cadence and at the end of his poetic work he condensed the footnote with devotion and especially originality.


Azem Shkreli died "as if he were playing" in 1997 - leaving his farewell written in stone next to his head - in case anyone needs it. If not, he still has no bitterness towards anyone.


That's the way he was.






Why didn't we get the nights

The people, the shores, the rocks

Why didn’t we get them


You took us

Road hunger, took us


All that's left is

Leaving and

Grunting to remain



Four twenty-five


At four twenty-five

Roads can come and go, they can

Give birth to children beautiful as grass


In four twenty-five

Let the war end, let the waters flow

A book should be written, nothing should be repeated


It could be Saturday after a whole Friday

Loneliness and waiting, curse and waiting, a river

Should give up bifurcation


You can hear night music, you can cry

You can love and die like

Never again


At four twenty-five when

Meteors sleep.


Outline for obituary


When the roads regrets

When the candle burns its own day


When you sleep forever

This verse of mine in a shell


When the rain falls, when it grows

Fern, the hymn of oblivion


When we die wise

When we die forever


Oh, so beautiful we will be





Is it my breath or the harp

That smells like the health smell of snowdrops


They say someone mentions


Reed that sings to my

Name sometimes, sometimes the oblivion


My body covered with leaves


Leave me a place in the hiccup

Of a beautiful sorrow



Shameful song



I cried tonight for you



I'm not ashamed

Why did I cry

I'm ashamed because I couldn't

Have done else


I cried out of shame



Descent from the ballad


This earthly world is best reached on foot

The beauty of the living always heals us from a toothache


How a river entered and fell through our thoughts


Here I the stubborn mortal with my mound in my hands

There a two-piece night and you and your prince passed


Goodbye my head, we will ripen beyond oblivion



Conversation with Shkrelis


How to pluck you from my plant

so wild, so good


once I will put you through the rhymes

violently, to die without mercy


to mercy, not even next time

We wouldn't be born any other way, that's all


why do we need the old madness

by which can’t no longer be dying


on the wall of the word, on the grass

on the bitter blood penitence


you will set the first oblivion

yours and sin


and in the roar of the wave, under the bridge

on the ground, in the fern, on the wire


in the moss, in the rifle, in the stone

whisper in my head, Shkrelis



Four advices to myself


Don't be a poet if you can't give birth

With each verse, to be born with each word.


Rise above yourself and you will hold the reins of the winds,

To step on the paths of anger and the paths of your blood.


If you fall in love, fall in love with the flame and the wave,

Not in blue eyes that you become a mad sea of remorse.


Don't be a poet if you can't die

For every verse, to die for every word…

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