Hamdi Meça Poet/Writer-Albania

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Hamdi Meça Poet/Writer-Albania

 

Poet, author, philosopher, .. His creativity, of several kinds, manifests man in all stages of life in the homeland and in the world. Awarded and honored with many international awards, medals, titles, diplomas of honor, etc. Selected for publication by serious publishers around the world, such as Croatia, India, Spain, Romania, etc. He is not a genuine writer for children and young people, but for that specific literature he wrote and published 26 books of poetry, 12 books of prose, and created his own memorable school. Especially, if you ask the author about his creativity, the keyword of the answer words sounds, poetry. Poetry books have been translated into English and published worldwide. Specifically: « A Poetic Mountain Range », « 303 Mad Battles » (303 Mad Battles), « Lines », etc. His poems have also been translated into many languages and published in dozens of international anthologies, magazines, portals, Europe, Asia, America, etc. According to observers, his artistry is a unique poetic art of a high class stylistic, aesthetic and philosophical.

 

 

I Am Wrong, I Imagine

 

 

 

 

I am wrong

I imagine

Because of desiring and loving you

And being closed in solipsism, in senselessness

Adrenaline and its root formation move entirely

Sometimes to the cold of the warmth

Or to the warmth of the cold

Sometimes to the satisfaction of the hungry man’s hunger

Or to the hunger of the fed

Sometimes to the fish’s thirst in water

Or to the weight of the bird in the air

Frequent breathing of sacred oxygen

Shaking blood mulberries off the vein branches

Harassing cockroaches looking like semaphores

Driving their muzzles deeper into grains

Pores wearing thorny sandals

Hanging outside on the types of birds’ beaks

Juices pull one another’s dishevelled hair

To join the vapour and fly away

The tongue of the dog’s mushroom, an instinct

Licking told secrets

With wooden fists

Armies of vices fighting with armies of mistakes

The Satan’s chain-like intestines

Conquering paths, tying human legs

To lead the astray at any moment

The worst thing, the most painful one occurs

Therefore Albert Einstein, at least, as a parent

Left a testament

Of 1400 letters

To his daughter

I’m wrong

I imagine

With the two fingers of my lips I do count

Real is this desire, this love or its Goddess inside me

I call the stone a ‘bird’ when I throw it in the sky

And I call the bird a ‘stone’ when it lands on the ground

Oh! Uh! Oh!

The woman in bed likes being unknown

Blind

Deaf

The deepest imagination

Remains alive there

Even if it always fails to go out an reach the surface

Its aliveness certainly increasing much more among others

What is the matter?

Which cells fell off?

Which one?

Which cell did they pull apart?

Where was it? Has it abandoned its home?

Which cell did they untie as if it were a shoelace?

Where did this tornado come from?

Where did it come from?

How can the tide avoid the ebb?

It has gone out from the lungs’ gates

Pushing

The marrow

Out of each bone

In Hades

The ancient poet

With his mouth

And his fingers

Playing

The flute made of a female’s femur

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