~~~Poezi Ne Gjuhe Te Huaj~~~

[broken_smile]

poezi t ebukura,keta ne gjuhen angleze sadopak i kuptojm..

por keta ne italishte e gjermanisht e frengjishte-po patet mundesi te na perktheni..

happy smile po munde ate te paren ti :)

do e beja me kenaqesi, por fatkeqesisht nuk e zoteroj shqipen aq mire sa duhet per ta perkthyer ate poezine pa ia prishur bukurine... :)

[Ke-ler]

Non credere a te stesso


Non credere a te stesso,giovane sognatore,
L'ispirazione temi come peste...
Essa é greve delirio dell'anima malata
O irritazione del pensiero in ceppi.
In essa non cercare segno celeste invano:
É ardor di sangue,é un soverchio di forze!
In faccende piuttosto lógorati la vita,
E versa la bevanda avvelenata!

Ti capiti in segreto,meraviglioso istante,
Di scoprirti nell'anima,da tempo,
Muta,una ancora ignota,una vergine fonte
Di semplici,di dolci suoni,-ad essi
Non porgere l'orecchio tu,non abbandonarti,
Getta su loro il velo dell'oblio:
col verso misurato,colla fredda parola,
Il loro senso non esprimerai.

S'insinui nei recessi del cuore la tristezza,
Giunga passione in turbine e tempesta,-
Al festino degli uomini chiassoso non venire
Tu colla tua furoreggiante amica.
Non umiliarti,ed abbi ritegno a far mercato
Or d'ira,ora d'angoscia compiacente,
E il marciume d'interne piaghe ad esporre altero
Per meraviglia dell'ingenua plebe.

A noi che cosa importa se soffri o non soffri?
Che giova a noi sapere i tuoi tumulti,
Le stupide speranze dei passati anni primi,
Le fiere doglie della tua ragione?
Ma guarda:a te davanti va felice e contenta
La turba pel cammino consueto;
Sui volti a festa quasi non é traccia d'affanni,
Lacrima sconveniente non vedrai.

Eppure in mezzo a loro non ve n'é forse un solo
Da un amaro tormento non oppresso,
Uno solo che sia giunto a precoci rughe
Senza perdita o sia senza delitto!...
Credi:a loro risibile é il tuo pianto,e l'accusa,
Colla sua arietta che si sa a memoria,
Al pari d'un attore tragico,imbellettato,
Che meni la sua spada di cartone...

M:Lermontov 1839

Kryeveper

[Linda5]

Mein Herz, ich will dich fragen

Mein Herz, ich will dich fragen,
Was ist denn Liebe, sag'? -
"Zwei Seelen und ein Gedanke,
Zwei Herzen und ein Schlag!"

Und sprich, woher, woher kommt Liebe? -
"Sie kömmt und sie ist da!"
Und sprich, wie schwindet Liebe? -
"Die war's nicht, der's geschah!"

Und was ist reine Liebe? -
"Die ihrer selbst vergißt!"
Und wann ist Lieb' am tiefsten? -
"Wenn sie am stillsten ist!"

Und wann ist Lieb' am reichsten? -
"Das ist sie, wenn sie gibt!"
Und sprich, wie redet Liebe? -
"Sie redet nicht, sie liebt!"

[alem_de]

Einsam

Ich sitze hier, du neben mir
Doch trotzdem hab ich nichts von dir
Machst dein Ding, ganz ohne mich
Liebling – ich vermisse dich
Nimm mich doch bitte in den Arm
Halt mich lieb, dann wird mir warm
Zeig mir dass du mich noch willst
Dass du mich brauchst und etwas fühlst
Sei doch nicht zu kalt zu mir,
denn dadurch stirbt ein Teil von mir
Du sitzt nur noch am PC
Und tust mir damit unendlich weh
Du merkst es nicht, du spürst nichts mehr
Innerlich schon alles leer
Ohne dich kann ich nicht sein,
doch mit dir bin ich auch allein.
Wach doch auf, zieh mich zu dir,
denn mein Herz zerbricht in mir
Du willst es, kannst es, fühlst es nicht
Nicht eine Regung im Gesich

[Fleur Blanche]

Lovely Lady of My Memory

My limbs are wasted with a flame,
My feet are sore with travelling,
For, calling on my Lady's name,
My lips have now forgot to sing.


O Linnet in the wild-rose brake
Strain for my Love thy melody,
O Lark sing louder for love's sake,
My gentle Lady passeth by.


She is too fair for any man
To see or hold his heart's delight,
Fairer than Queen or courtesan
Or moonlit water in the night.


Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,
(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)
Green grasses through the yellow sheaves
Of autumn corn are not more fair.


Her little lips, more made to kiss
Than to cry bitterly for pain,
Are tremulous as brook-water is,
Or roses after evening rain.


Her neck is like white melilote
Flushing for pleasure of the sun,
The throbbing of the linnet's throat
Is not so sweet to look upon.


As a pomegranate, cut in twain,
White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,
Her cheeks are as the fading stain
Where the peach reddens to the south.


O twining hands! O delicate
White body made for love and pain!
O House of love! O desolate
Pale flower beaten by the rain!



Oscar Wilde

[IsiNYC]

I am a crooked man
And I've walked a crooked mile
Night, the shameless widow
Doffed her weeds, in a pile
The stars all winked at me
They shamed a child
Your funeral, my trial

A thousand Marys lured me
To feathered beds and fields of glover
Bird with crooked wing cast
It's wicked shadow over
A bauble moon did mock
And trinket stars did smile
Your funeral, my trial

Here I am, little lamb...
Let all the bells in whoredom ring
All the crooked bitches that she was
(Mongers of pain)
Saw the moon
Become a fang
Your funeral, my trial

[broken_smile]

The Indian Serenade

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
The Champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The Nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart;—
As I must on thine,
Oh, belovèd as thou art!

Oh lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;—
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.

Shelley

[broken_smile]

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Shakespeare