FLASH
Shkruar nga Edison Ypi
In addition to being Sovereign, he is deafening us by coming out of the window as a preacher, as a shepherd, as a priest at the Altar, as a saint. And who?! The one who has been losing for 12 years! The possibility that Faqeziu Doktor will bring the Democratic Party to power is exactly the same as the possibility that one of these days a 40-year-old spring will wake up.
Doctor Faqeziu did us dirty. He spat on morality, he pissed on ethics, he choked us with ropes, snares, twists, he refused responsibilities, he ignored mistakes, he disappointed expectations, he poisoned hope, he killed the past, he shot the future, and now he wants to throw his own guilt on me. The sovereign. We accepted the coal-faced communist, we voted for him, we elected him, we endured him, not because we wanted to mess with him, nor because he talks nicely, but because we needed him as an administrator, clerk, follower of the sovereign people to govern the transition, nothing more. Mirpo Doctor Dallaverja shook him on the way. He is trying to change roles, to do the carousel, to be the Sovereign who must fulfill his every wish, and the other pious ones to wash his head, feet, and face and then throw the dirty water of the foot basin on the heads of the poor of the alley.
Finally, in addition to being Sovereign, he is deafening us by coming out of the window as a preacher, as a shepherd, as a priest at the Altar, as a saint. And who?! The one who has been losing for 12 years! The possibility that Faqeziu Doktor will bring the Democratic Party to power is exactly the same as the possibility that one of these days a 40-year-old spring will wake up. Redface has no shame. The page doesn't give a damn. The cheek does not redden or turn yellow. The animalistic insistence of Faqekatran not to get up from the armchair leaves me speechless. Does this Pageant have Faith, Religion and Canon? Has a drop of tears ever flowed down his sterile cheek? Has any Woman ever rested her head on his shoulder? Has he ever heard at least the first notes of the Fifth Symphony? Does this vampire have any idea what they are: spring, the smell of sturgeon, the smell of the earth after the rain, the rustle of the forest, the whisper of the stream? Or page by page, I only know: This one stole, he extorted, this one beat that one, he killed this one, he gave this one a kiosk at the Customs, that one a shop at the airport, that other a hydroelectric plant in Mokre. The lizard that is considered a dinosaur, after 12 years of not being able to come to power, should have left 12 thousand times. But he has no intention of it.
What about Faqedreq?
If you shoot him, Faqemenderja dies, he picks up his spoons, goes out at night around the city and asks door to door: In which meadow is PD eating grass? What happens there from the pulpit, the window, the alley? How do I have Lalzi Bay, Gërdec?
If you take it and throw it in the garbage can, Faqeziu runs away as he has run away several times, to the speeches, the speeches, the speeches.
The only place that Faqeskilja cannot vary is the prison. As long as he has left, Faqekongjilli, who left us communists in charge of the country, should be beaten and cracked in prison. For a thousand reasons. The first because that's what I want. But not to be imprisoned in the prison of 1 window to the hole of hope and the needle in the haystack. Only at the prison of 7 windows in Gjirokastër. Where moisture rots. A snake bites you. The rat bites you.
In order for Albania to be cleansed, after Faqetigan, here are some others who have a chance to spend some time behind bars:
Agim Doçi, for example, the one who wrote three thousand songs, kissed the whore's ass three thousand times and licked the party's flesh. And they have the impudence to say that he was a poet. Oh, you ate the mortja, you ate: Don't go near that guy because he's a spy - those who knew the fight in Doc told me at that time. Let the nostalgics of Doci's poems continue to fall to their pelvises, saying that the betexji of the festivals was an artist. To me, who made me want to vomit, I tell you that the scumbag, who squirmed like a larva all his life, threw it at us and ran away without getting wet. For this, the bastard must return from that world to this world to do some posthumous prison until he sings a poem without a party inside, and the millet's ears are comfortable.
Band Fevziu is not leaving a corner of the planet without seeing. It has gone as far as cannibals. But it has never been to the most spectacular place in the world: Marta's Neck. To go to the blacks with irons on their noses, where Blendi is, without first going to Backa where father Hektori was a teacher, who fled through the mountains and through the winter 20 hours on foot to Korça, this has no ass to stay, this constitutes a crime. In order to sensitize about the spectacular places of Albania and the sufferings of his familiars, as well as to make the cannibals feel comfortable from the frequent visits he is making, Blendi deserves two or three years in prison.
Agim Nesho, this mussel that gurgles, this fool with horns, this barren, this langaraq, where gagaç who can't put two words together, this dallamango without any idea, this disgusting parrot, this pilaf with dog meat who says he is Ambassador , there is no other way to close a mouth as dirty as Guimplen's, but to spend three or four years in prison.
Dhisar Shiti, this Neanderthal of Literature, this caveman of Poetry, this incurable stinking egocentrist, this incomparable scumbag and brat, has a twin. Dhisar Shiti's twin is the tombstone at the mountain's neck, where the commemorative plaque reads: In this place, after the heroic war of the partisans, the Germans killed seven partisans.
Në fakt te ai vend s’u bë asnjë luftë. Gjermani s’ishte marrosur tu ngjitej maleve kot. Partizanët u vranë bukur e bukur me njëri-tjetrin. Pllaka dëshmon heroizmin inekzistent propagandistik. Dhisar Shiti, shqipen e të cilit, po i hyre ta lexosh të duket sikur po ha zhavorr, s’ka muhabet tjetër veç atij më të urryerit në botë; talenti i tij, vuajtja e tij, sukseset e tij, librat që ai lexoi, kafetë që ai lëpiu, muhabetet që ai bëri, lëvdatat që atij i thurën, medaljet që atij ja dhanë, ofiqet që atij ja blatuan, dhe të tjera pështirosja. Dhisar Shiti nuk është prej mishi. Dhisar Shiti është prej llamarine. Nga ato që teprojnë nga prodhimi i tenxhereve, dhe vjen i mbledh një jevg me karrocë. Shiti Dhisar është një karrakatinë njerëzore mbytur në konvencionalizëm soc-realist. Nga ai më i fëlliqti, i Lidhjes së Shkrimtarëve, Gazetës Drita, Revistës Nëntori. Për të cilat Dhisari ka një adhurim nostalgjik, një mallëngjim dhe pikëllim të pashlyeshëm. Dhisari mund të qe’ fare mirë bujk me hosten e plug, çoban me gunë e fyell, marangoz me sqepar e sharrë, samarxhi me spango e gjylpyer, se për Letërsi o ta marrsha, shitësin e djathit edhe mund ta kesh, por Dhisarin kurrë. Shiti dhe Letërsia janë më larg se i sëmuri me Diabet nga tepsia me pasta. Pyet kë të duash: E njeh Dhisar Shitin? Po, të thonë të gjithë, është shkrimtar me nam. Ça ka shkruar Shiti? Aty zënë e krruajnë kokën. Këtë askush nuk e di. Jo se Shit mburracaku shkruan kështu apo ashtu dhe njërit i pëlqen e tjetrit jo. E shkruara e Shitit me uniformitetin tmerrues dhe banalitetin uluritës që e karakterizon, është njësoj e pështirë për të gjithë.
Shiti ka fut në një kazan krejt bajgat soc-letrare, i ka zjerë, u ka pirë lëngun, elisiri e ka dehur, i është futur Letërsisë si turku summerlandit. Halli me Dhisarin është se Shiti nuk është individ, është fenomen. Shiti është “Shitorja” te lagja, kthesa e parë semafori i dytë, kafeneja e tretë, djathtas, te një përrua ku shurrojnë budallenjtë. Po pun’ e madhe fort e kujt po i plas se paska qënë Shiti në burg. Kush nuk ishte në burg kur shiti me shokë kompromentonin talentin me soc-letërsi? Dhisari doli nga rrjeshti? Hiqmu sysh, plehër. Fati i zi dhe Talenti i vërtetë janë më larg se minus infiniti me plus infinitin. Që Dhisar Shiti të mos vazhdojë të pjerdhi e të dhjesi duke ndotuar ambientin dhe profanuar Tempullin me bajga letrareske me tre pika shurre në fund, duhet mbyllur në burg. Jopo ka qënë një herë në burg për ca bejte, janë dëngla melodramatike të neveritshme që i përhap vet Shiti. Deliranti që e ndot mjedisin me kakërdhiat e veta duke nxjerrë në tezgë gjithçka, nga përndjekja tek intimitete familiare me fatkeqsi makabre për shkaqe banale, duhet të mbyllet urgjent në burg. Derisa era e pordhëve të lodhura të Shitit të harrohen, jo më pak se 10 vjet.
Sonila Meço, or Nëmërçka, also doesn't mind spending a few years in Hapsana. How does Mrs. Nemerçkë manage to increase her graces over time? All grow old, the Underworld is rejuvenated. All are wrinkled, Meçua is beautified. All turn off, Sonila turns on. Why does not this Lady show the secret of the chronology that flows backwards, the secrets of victories against the tyranny of time? Keeping these secrets to yourself favors the decay of the race, is treason against the Motherland, a serious crime that deserves arrest and punishment. For the High Lady to speak and give to the others the secret of the passing years and the addition of graces in the end-of-the-world relief under the clothes of Nëmerçka, a few years in prison will not hurt Sonila. Word of mouth. The phenomenal size of the Underworld will bring out logistical problems. A prison for Vjosa, who lies all the time, is possible, but it has a high cost. For Nemerçka, who is standing all the time from wet feet in Vjosa, to a snowy head, it seems a problem that the penitentiary administration should solve in cooperation with NATO, which has the right cranes and bulldozers. Nemerçka urgently in prison. To swallow mint. To tell the secrets of eternal youth to the girls and women who are leaving us with all those plastic surgeries.
Tomorr Alizoti, what about the bastard who is blackening our cheeks, what about the same? Don't you hear the cries of Fejziu who gets up every night from the grave, wants to come and grab him by the throat but is prevented by the communist guard of the graveyard who goes every evening under the window of the ruins? Nam, black, you are letting Doctor Faqemehit and MP like dung behind the straw of the hut. It also makes me a geopolitician, no let. Pull yourself together kusha. I saw you again at Doctor Faqezifti, I will put you in jail without batting an eyelash. This time you survived. I can't speak. It made a lump in my throat.
Lini një Përgjigje