Mimoza Erebara

 

 

MIMOZA EREBARA

Born in Tirana. High-level qualifications Faculty of History-Philology,Branch Albanian Language and Literature at the University of Tirana.Since 1985 she works as a journalist at editorial offices of daily and periodical press.Initially as a journalist of culture,then journalist,analyst,opinionist and editoralist,as well as for the Albaian Migration Media.Leader in some newspapers 1991-2000.After a break from active and public life,she returned in 2006 again with publications,presentations,curatorship of various cultural and artistic activities.Continuously present in the daily and periodical press.As a publicist she is also known as a poet,writer,translator and critic of art.Appreciated by specialized criticism for her literary work.It is in translation process in severeal languages.Editor in some poetry volumes.For her (non-artistic) activity,she has been awarded the highest title”Ambassador for Peace” awarded by the Universal Peace Federation,Prishtina. She is also an active and at the same timeVice-President of the Albanian Section at the European Academy of Arts.From this Academy is awarded the highest prize “PLAQUE D’HONNEUR”.The winner of some national prizes,such as the “Viktor Eftimiu” for the best children’s novel,(The Adventures of 10×10 and the Munuriro Downheaders”) ,Tirana.Winner of the prize “Pen of Flames” Gjilan,Kosovo. Winner of the prize PRIX DE PARIS and PRIX DE CLOY, at the International Contest of Poetry,Paris.Included and participated in several Conferences and Scientifis session workshops,Prishtina,Tirana,Tetovo.

Published

  1. “To accompany a hope” – poetry, Tirana, 1993
  2. “Adventures of 10×10 and Munuriro Downheaders”, – novel / fairy tale, Tirana, 1995
  3. “Scream of love” – ​​poetry, Tirana, 1996
  4. “Wrong Lovers” – stories, Tirana, 1997
  5. “Evil Eye” – original tale, Tirana, 1998
  6. ” Broken Reason”, – poetry, Tirana, 1999
  7. “Padlock for rent” – stories, Tirana, 2010
  8. “Peace Without a Prophet”, -poetry, Kosovo, 2012
  9. “He and She – love messages”, -poetry, Durrës, 2015
  10. “Shalom my tear”, poetry, Tirana, 2017

IDENTITETI

Ne lindnim nën pemë

Rriteshim rreth pemës

Vdisnim të varur në pemë

-ne ishim pemë

Pa rrënjë,

veç trung,

pa gjethe,

veç fruta

-shkopinj të thatë

Që lindnim nën rrënjë

E vdisnim  në degë

Ku gishtat si krimbat

Kokëfortë,

brejnë gjethet e fundit të vjeshtës

hebreje

 

PERËNDIM NE IZRAEL

Perëndoi dielli mbi Tel Aviv

U tret në muzg hija e peshkatarit

Të vjeter, ndanë detit blu

Në muzg u tretën ndërtesat

Falafeli tek qoshku edhe për sot mbaroi

Lulet e mbuluan veten me kujdes

Vajzat ushtare i lanë të lira flokët,

si ëndërrat, t’u derdhen supeve

Gamilet si Sfinkse, u ulën të heshtura

Shkretëtira e vetmuar foli me to

Me gjuhë misterioze nën një rit

Mijëravjeçar, të padeshifruar

Dhe beduini humbi nën sytë e përmalluar

Dhe foshnjet ranë në gjumin e paqtë

Arka e Noaha-s

Nuk u  nis, as në këtë perëndim

Guri lëshoi në ajër gjithë nxehtësinë

U mbyllën Bibliotekat, Muzeumet,

po Qeshja e veshur gjysëmdiell e gjysëmnatë

doli në rrugë.e lirë,e shpenguar,farfuritëse

Qeshja,

Mbi Ashdod,

dhe mbi Arad,

Masada me kohë i kishte fshehur plagët

dhe qeshi me qeshjen

Muri i Lotëve thirri pranë Shpresën

 

Perëndoi dielli

Në Tokën Time të ashpër

-Dhe Loti im i butë

perëndoi….

 

 

 

 

PROFECITE

Kridhem, nën Profeci.

Po uji i dielltë

Shtohet

E më mbulon krejt.

Nuk është më

Vetëm Profecia Ime

Me mijëra më rrethojnë,

S’kanë fytyrë, as moshë

Se sytë tek Unë i kanë lënë,

Që Unë të shoh

Ato që Profecitë thonë

Dhe të hesht

Se Heshtja tashmë duhet .

 

 

 

 

ANGLISHT

IDENTITY

We were born under trees,                                                                                                                               Would grow up around trees,                                                                                                                         Would die hung up in trees.                                                                                                                      We WERE trees –                                                                                                                                             No roots,                                                                                                                                                        But bare trunks,                                                                                                                                                    No leaves,                                                                                                                                                                      But fruits.

We were                                                                                                                                                    A breed of dry sticks,                                                                                                                                                 Shooting up from beneath the roots                                                                                                     And perishing up above on a branch,                                                                                                       Where the fingers,                                                                                                                                     Like stubborn-headed worms,                                                                                                                               Would eat                                                                                                                                                               The last leaves in fall.

 

 

 

SUNSET IN ISRAEL

The sun set over Tel-Aviv.                                                                                                                                  The old fisherman’s shadow faded in the dusk,                                                                                             By the blue sea.                                                                                                                                                            In the dusk faded the buildings.                                                                                                              Falafel around the corner ran out for today as well.                                                                                 Flowers discreetly covered themselves.                                                                                            The young lady soldiers let their hair loose,                                                                                               Like dreams, to flow down their shoulders.                                                                                                              The camels, like sphinxes, lay down in silence,                                                                                                With the lonely desert talking to them                                                                                                                                                 In a myserious language, under an undecipherable,                                                                                   Thousand-year old rite,                                                                                                                                         And the Bedouin faded inside his eyes of longing,                                                                                             And the babies went to their peaceful sleep.                                                                                                            The Noah’s ark didn’t depart on this sunset either.                                                                                        The rock discharged its entire heat in the air.                                                                                                      Libraries, museums, all closed doors.                                                                                                    Cheerfulness, nonetheless, dressed up half-lightish, half-nightish,                                                                 Went out in the streets, free, untethered, dazzling –                                                                                                  The cheerfulness over Ashdod                                                                                                                        And over Arad.                                                                                                                                                   Masada had of long concealed her wounds                                                                                                                               And cheered at cheerfulness.                                                                                                                         The Wailing Wall beckoned Hope nearby.

The sun set                                                                                                                                                    Over My rough Land,                                                                                                                                       And so did                                                                                                                                                               My soft teardrop…

 

 

 

 

 

PROPHECIES  In Galilee

I am bathing in prophecies.                                                                                                                                       The sunny water, however,                                                                                                                 Mounts up                                                                                                                                                 And covers me altogether.                                                                                                                           I am no longer awash                                                                                                                                          Solely in My own Prophecy.                                                                                                              There are                                                                                                                            Thousands of them around                                                                                               Belonging to no certain face or age,                                                                                                                        For they gifted their eyes to Me,                                                                                                                      So that I can make out                                                                                                                           What the Prophecies foretell.

And I keep silent, because                                                                                                                                        Silence                                                                                                                                              Is what the moment calls for.

 

 

 

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