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
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
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
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 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
Out of each bone
The ancient poet
With his mouth
And his fingers
The flute made of a female’s femur