Antique

I drowned in the fire of having you, I burned
In the river of not having you, we lived
Together for hours in a house of a thousand rooms
And we were parted for a thousand years.
Ten minutes ago we raised our children who cover
The earth and have forgotten that we eisted
It was not maya, it was not ladder to perfection,
It was this cold sunlight falling on this warm earth.

When I turned you went to Hell. When you ship
Fled the battle followed you and lost the world
Without regret but with stormy recriminations
Someday far down that corridor of horror the future
Someone who buys this picture of you for the frame
At a stall in a dwindled city will study your face
And decide to harbor it for a little while longer
From the waters of anonymity, the acids of breath.

- Robert Pinsky - Marre nga numri i dates 15 Shtator, 03'


Po lexoja sot "The New Yorker" , reviste e perjavshme ne SHBA e cila midis te tjerave prezanton krijime te krijuesve te rinj. Duke qene se ka kohe qe e lexoj si reviste dhe kam vene re se shkrimet ne te nuk jane me te mira se ato qe shume nga ju shkruajne ne kete forum (per mendimin tim), mendova se do ishte nje ide e mire (per shkrimtaret e rinj, te cilet shkruajne dhe anglisht dhe duan te njihen me publikun e gjere) te dergonin krijimet tek kjo reviste. Per me shume informacion se si kjo reviste pranon shkrime etj mund te shkoni tek www.newyorker.com