FLASH
Shkruar nga Edison Ypi
Man speaks to man. The animal does not speak to man. But there is a problem. What one says, the other does not. Beauty has driven him crazy.
You have a car. You are the joy of nature. Citizens are slandering him. The city has come to your throat. He loves and respects Katun and the people of Katun. You have no problem with SPAK. By going to the Mountain with Gropa, your mind has gone very well.
This journey begins at "Priska's Neck". Right there, after taking a look at the stunning ocean of mountains to the East, and turning left towards Qafmolla, you feel the first wonderful whiff of fresh air compared to the metropolitan air you just left behind.
You will be surprised by the magnificent view of Dajti from the back. You thought it was more or less the same as the front view. It is natural. It happens to everyone.
The neck is like those veiled women who hide their graces. It is not known where the beautiful houses, the embroidered gardens, the delicious cherries, the healthy apples, the juicy pears, the intoxicating vines, and other jewels are.
Along the way, you can see only restaurants like medieval castles, very frequented, famous for the roasted meat of the kids and goats of these parts.
Until Feken, you will occasionally encounter a local resident on the side of the road at his work, or a Benz or a Toyota, some powerful motorcycles with tourists in spacesuits flying like mad over the rocks, they come from far away countries, from China, India , Japan, and strike like lightning towards the Mediterranean Tirana, but also local tourists who climb and descend the rocks with sticks in their hands.
I don't think you will chat with some of these who travel through our wonders. Man speaks to man. The animal does not speak to man. But there is a problem. What one says, the other does not. Beauty has driven him crazy. It made them stutter. One says Red Cross is four hours away. The other does Be' no more than half an hour. Do whatever you want. The good thing is to trust both and all the maddened by beauty. And don't stop. Run away, escape, slide, go crazy, lose, you too like them.
There is no asphalt after Feken. But there is no problem. The road has a hard rock bottom. No risk of slipping. The deep chasms to get mint are scary and dangerous. But there is a solution. If you are afraid of them, don't worry about the abyss, don't see their end.
The innumerable mountains, the valleys where the jinn come out and sing and dance at night, the amazing forests, the blue lakes, the swift streams, the solid rocks, don't get tired of telling or writing to a friend or, even worse, to honey when you come back It's impossible. You won't know what to say to her, she won't have anything to understand, let alone feel. Those beauties are beyond Words, beyond Prose. Others deal with them, poets, musicians, painters. During this journey, I do what belongs to you: save your heart from a heart attack.
Forget the time, the road, the dangers. Except run away, and while running away see, smell, listen, touch, surround.
Running through a twisty forest will feel like you've fallen into a deep well from which you'll never get out.
When you enter a pine forest, it will seem, one time as if you messed up the road and went towards Burrel, the other time as if you are going to the lakes of Mollagjesh near Labinot Mali.
Do not deal with these fantasies, you will go crazy. Just keep going.
Here is Mount Gropa, two thousand meters above sea level.
Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands, pits. From several meters to several tens of meters in diameter. Millions of years old. But also fresh dives from a few days ago. Millennial antiquity so close to the present.
Urgent musicians.
Urgent painters.
Urgent Poets.
Let those who know, those who love it, those who feel it testify to this Paradise. Not the stupid self-proclaimed Poets in promos full of burps just because they've been in prison, but real Poets.
Somewhere an inexplicable sight appears in front of you. Some young foreigners, after leaving two Toyotas and a Benz with unknown license plates on the side of the road, the only cars you will see from Fekeni to Kroi Kuq, have come to a mountain plateau where they are picking a white flower with a thin stem. and hard to the ground. It's good to have oysters and oysters from the end of the world in the middle of the kurkurkund for a rare flavor. What is the name of that flower that grows in one kilometer and nowhere else along this journey? You will hardly ever learn this.
I walk and walk among the wonders, when suddenly a large, green, bowl-shaped meadow, surrounded by forests, appears in front of me. In the middle of the meadow a Lapidar. In Lapidar, the marble slab is missing, the slab has been pulled out. You have no way of knowing or learning, which war was fought, by whom, against whom, why, how many were killed, how many were wounded, how many were taken captive, how many were lied to, how much they boasted about in that war for the honor and glory of to whom the stupid devils raised the tombstone? The deaf tombstone has no answers to these questions.
However, if you are not stupid, you understand some things, even without a commemorative plaque.
Vendi për Lapidar nuk është zgjedhur se këtu është bërë ndonjë luftë. Këtu nuk është bërë asnjë luftë. Lufta nuk bëhet nëpër vende të shkreta, sado të bukura. Luftat bëhen në vendet e begata. Ky Lapidar ndodhet këtu për 1 arsye të vetme; sepse ky shesh, ky livadh, ky kryqëzim, është vend i mirë për Lapidar. Pra ky lapidar nuk është lapidar i vërtetë. Ky lapidar është lapidar propagandiatik. Vendi i mirë për luftë nuk është vend i mirë edhe për lapidar. Vendi i mirë për lapidar nuk është vend i mirë edhe për luftë. Vende të mira edhe për luftë edhe për lapidarë nuk ka, nuk mund të ketë. Patriotët lapidaristikë e kanë vënë këtë lapidar në një vend të dukshëm ku s'është bërë asnjë luftë. U lumtë lapidaristikëve që kanë arritur deri këtu ku lapidarin propagandiatik veç teje që i ke qejf këto gërxhe nuk e sheh as nuk e njeh asnjë tjetër.
Më të majtë të lapidarit, drejt veriut, rruga shkon në Gurabardh, Klos, Burrel, Rrëshen, Rruga e Arbrit, dhe kahmos. Lere për më vonë. Do ishte sikur pas një tepsie me bakllava të hash dhe një kazan me revani, çka s'është e mundur. Udhëtimi në dy rrugë të ndryshme njëkohësisht, shkenca hëpërhë nuk nuk e ka zgjidhur. Lere për herë tjetër.
Pak përtej lapidarit, mbi një brinjë shkëmbore, shtrirë, një çoban me krrabë, me qen Sharri, fyell dhe shotgun, do të thotë se është demokrat i thekur. Çobani të nxjerr sytë për Doktorin. Po i the se Doktori nuk ka 12 ditë, as 12 javë, por 12 vjet që shkon nga humbja, do të përgjigjet se për gjithçka e ka fajin "i gjati" që i ka zaptuar të gjitha pushtetet. Mos e kundërshto viktimën e propagandës duke i thënë se demokratët ja dhuruan pushtetet "të gjatit" kur grisën mandatet etj. Lere të fantazojë brenda fatkeqsisë televizive. Vazhdo nëpër mrekullirat natyrore.
Ja dhe Kroi Kuq. I kuq për shkak të mineralit të hekurit mbi sipërfaqe, apo për shkak të rrenave me trima partizanë që luftuan heroikisht me mullinjtë e erës nëpër këto gërrxhe, këtë s'e mëson dot. Te lapidari ishte shkulur pllaka. Këtu mungojnë njerëzit.
Kroi Kuq është i famshëm qysh herët, mes tjerash, për gojëdhënën gastronomike dëshmi të urisë së gjyshërve se aty mund të hash sa të duash tasa me grosh me të vetmin kusht nga tasi në tas nga një gotë uji të këtij kroi.
Sot ky krua si një konteiner i madh që i kanë shpuar dyer e dritare, ngjan si restorant i improvizuar, dhe është bosh. Trokit sa të duash. Nga brenda s'bëzan kush. Ndoshta i ka zënë gjumi dhe po shohin ëndrra nën shushurimën e kroit përjashta barrakes që rrjedh e rrjedh pa u ndalur që nga kohët e lashta.
The sign says that the road continues to Martanesh and Fush Studë. It seems incredible. To travel from Librazhdi towards Bulqiza, and in Fush Studë to cast your eyes to the west, Martanesh, etc. you are terrified of an ocean of high, wild mountains. It seems like the end of the world. You like it, but you also feel sad. However, it is possible. Not asking for help from Einstein to virtually split me in two or three. Not today. Not this time. Leave it for later. When the part of the brain responsible for processing adventures through natural beauty misses others.
Now come back. Go down to Vërri, then Shëngjergj, and so on until you left, to the house with quarrelsome neighbors, noises, screams, screams.
As Mr. Kallauz orders. I'm going down.
Three brothers are putting the finishing touches on a giant guesthouse with three floors decorated like a castle where tourists will eat and drink, feast on meat and pilaf, and dance.
Villas, new houses, gardens, systemized courtyards, bars, restaurants, waters flowing from Mali me Gropa.
Shëngjergj, Vërri, along and on the side of the asphalted road immersed in greenery, cars, off-road vehicles, motorcycles, caravans, tourists among oak trees.
Where the fairy tale valley ends and the winding climb to Priska's Pass begins, a hitchhiker. Assume that he is a grandfather.
The Hitchhiker has a speech with deafening moralistic content like the steam intermittently coming out of a pressure cooker.
Let the hitchhiker and the pot blow off steam. A blonde, tall, almost naked teenage Nordic tourist with a ponytail swinging behind her is running on the tarmac at dusk.
Lini një Përgjigje