Duke shfaqur rezultatin -19 deri 0 prej 18

Tema: Renis Nushaj

  1. #1

    Poezi nga "Varrezat e Femijerise" nga Renis Nushaj


    Cdo dite e me teper reflektoj,
    kthimin qe me perket permes harreses;
    Dhe shperqendrohem ne vdekje...
    Hap syte dhe penetroj erresiren:
    Qendroj ende i shtrire
    dhe megjithese ndihem i gjalle perseri
    (pas kaq vitesh mumifikimi absurd)
    ndjej krimbat e nentokes te me depertojne kafken
    nder vite pagjumesie te crregullt.
    Nuk arrij te leviz dot, por shoh duart
    qe jane mbuluar nga bari e dheu.
    Nje perrua i vogel kalon prane meje,
    stalagmitet siper kokes
    bien mbi trupin tim te pajete, dhe kujtoj,
    vite pasi nderrova jete,
    nje kerpudhe e zeze mesoi te lulezonte ketu,
    dimrave te lagesht, por tani jo me:
    Kjo stine tashme eshte e ftohte...
    Dhe per disa vite rresht, kujtoj, e pashe
    te thahej, ne tentativen e lulezimit helmues.
    Por mbase nje dite do te lulezoje serish...
    Gjithcka eshte kthyer ne nje qetesi mortore.
    Ndjej token lart meje, te shkrete deri ne morrnica
    dhe e di se, nese kujtoj nje rruge,
    ketu poshte nuk kam per ta gjetur kurre.
    Tashme e kam kuptuar se nuk do te kthehem
    me ne jete,
    dhe vetmia ka kohe qe nuk me bezdis.
    Kujtoj: Kohet e para ish' me e veshtire.
    Ne erresiren e plote, s'arrija te kuptoja
    ne isha syhapur apo symbyllur,
    dhe me mendjen ne nje vakum te plote,
    ishte e trishte, mbaj mend
    te mos kuptoja ne c'gjendje ndodhesha.
    te mos arrija kurre te kuptoja,
    se cfare duhet te ndieja!
    Kam perjetuar prehjen e vdekjes...
    por mbase ajo qe kam urryer me teper,
    ka qene ai tis tinzar pabesie
    qe me perfshinte ne lageshtiren e erresires.
    Fillova te mendoja
    (po ende nuk e kuptoja qe po mendoja)
    se kishte qene thjesht nje jete
    e shkuar dem ne tentativen e njohjes.
    Tani isha thjesht,
    deshira e perceptimit te kohes
    qe nuk dija ne kalonte apo jo,
    dhe qe llogarisja permes mendimeve
    qe shkeputeshin nga siperfaqet e oqeaneve
    si delfine te ngordhur drejt parajsash shkumezuese.
    Jam i pershkruar nga nje hije dyshimi
    dhe nga nje crregullim i pergjithshem
    i gjithesise personale...heshtjeje,
    dhe ngurtesie te perthyer ne veprim
    Cudi!...Kjo pafundesi qe me rrethon...
    Prandaj konsideroj jeten si qetesine
    e nje shpirti qe vuan ne perjetesi.
    Ndryshuar pėr herė tė fundit nga shigjeta : 26-08-2007 mė 21:18

  2. #2
    in bocca al lupo Maska e Leila

    besoj i njejti Renis Nushaj eshte

    Monologue: Explaining the American Dream to an Albanian Mother

    Mother it is obvious I will go to America with or without your consent, and if you give me the money I will appreciate it immensely, if you don't have it, I guess you'll have to borrow it, and if you don't want to give me the money, I'll just have to swim I guess. I won't be neither the first nor the last.

    There is obviously nothing to worry about, and no difficulties included in the package. If there were to be any, I would not get myself involved in the first place, for I am neither crazy nor overly optimistic: As I have told you countless times, I will put into work the Veni, Vidi, Vici approach. I will go, make that million dollars real quick and come back before you even notice I was gone.

    I know I am seventeen, mother. Do you think I lost track? And why do you say "only" seventeen? Am I not old enough for you? Mother, I think you need to trust me a little bit more. What will I do in America? What do people do in America, mother? I will go to school; I will work a little bit and in my free time, I will make it a point to have fun. Actually, now that I think about it, the Americans have a lot of free time I have heard (they are such a rich nation after all) so I might have to focus a lot more on the fun part... Who will I stay with? Mother, now what kind of a question is that? Aren't you being a little too pessimistic? What kind of people do you think the Americans to be? Do you think that anyone in America would find enough evil in their heart to allow such a fine Albanian to sleep under the bridge? You are definitely too pessimistic, mother.

    I will probably use one of these exchange programs, at least in the beginning, but I plan to move on my own very quickly. How will I afford it? Certainly I will seek employment somewhere, and I doubt a fine specimen such as myself will be denied a position anywhere! It's not like they will be running out of jobs anytime soon in America! As to the kind of employment that I will be attaining, unlike the rest, that would be mere speculation at this point. I guess I will go with the flow, though I must say, a nice cushy job somewhere never hurt anyone... What if I am incapable of finding a job I am comfortable with? I doubt that will happen, but my policy is on of non-bargaining. If I settle for nothing less, than I will attain nothing less.

    Mother, what kind of question is it: Aren't I afraid I am going to miss you, mother? I am being serious here! We've got something very serious in our hands! Let us not compromise the American Dream with such archaic and patriarchal notions such as longing. Why must we as nation be so pessimistic in our endeavors. I am working with a plan here, mother: I am pursuing the American Dream. Let us be serious for a moment, focus, and understand the notion and the very foundations it lies upon. What I offer... my vision, is one riddled in simplicity. Arrival in America, a quick rise to the top, and an even quicker return home. Mother, it is pure genius, it is brilliant, it is, above all, necessary.

    I know and understand that your wage is about $100 a month, father is unemployed and aside myself and my little brother, you are also supporting all three living grandparents, and I also know and understand very well that $ 7000 is a good chunk of money, but the situation at hand is reduced down to one single, all inclusive question: Mother, can we say no to destiny? I would argue, no.

    What about my friends? Oh, mother, always so melancholic! Always prying on the spiritual. You must try and leave the backwardness of Eastern Europe behind in your mental map of the world and for once I want you to try and visualize America and all which it encompasses. I want you to visualize it as it rises from the foundations of an ageless continent, yet so young in its history, so unsurpassable in its might, so fresh in its approach. What a piece of work is America! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!

    I know right now this might sound as the babbling of a teenager, but you will understand one day. The American Dream is obviously much more than just an empty idea reducing the proletariat to pragmatism. It is more than just a simple approach to governance, an idea devoid of meaning which keeps the middle and lower classes subdued through the desire to succeed. Mother, the American Dream is not yet another opiate for the masses.

    Having been born and lived in such backwardness for so long, by virtue of necessity, we are too corrupt in our ideology, too immersed in the present, and too selfish in our desires, to be truly capable of comprehending as pure a thought. The American ideology in its outmost simplicity is not just moral righteousness, but what is truly remarkable about us as humanity, what we should strive for as a whole in order to be marked as inherently good in the eye of the Creator, what is noble of our endeavor in our journey toward death. Mother, "the American Dream" is the reality of a people, not the hallucination of, it is truth carved in stone, not a vision in the desert.

    Indeed, it is because I understand it, that I endorse it. This is not a shot in the dark. I am not trying to be the blind man in a room full of deaf people, but rather merely attempting to be in unison with an upwardly mobile population that knows no boundaries. Mother, we have in our hands a people that has surpassed the Tower of Babel countless times, a population which has calmly laid siege to the hopeless heavens, whose achievement sees no ends, other than the "soon to be conquered" in all probability, those of spiritual bliss. Mother, the American Dream is attained perfection, not subjugation.

    My desire to go to America is not the mindless attempt of a teenager to achieve freedom from parental control before the official deadline of Universal Suffrage, but rather the well calculated move toward a desired objective grounded in reality. The noblest of causes, the most well defined of paths, yours truly: The Endorsement of a Dream.

    I have a dream as well, mother. And that dream is simple and sincere as simple and sincere we Albanians are. I have a dream; that one day, in every immigration office I set foot upon, I shall be judged not by the color of my red communist passport but by the content of my blue, freedom loving one. I have a dream; that one day I may pursue and attain the American dream, and no longer dream nightmares of supperless evenings, but rather dream of middle class values, of whoppers and happy meals, coca cola and no starch on my plate as I will no longer be eastern and backward, rather western and dwelling in the American dream, my Atkins dream, democracy exporting for democracy is on wheels, Antebellum dream...

    Mother, to deny me this opportunity, would be to stand against the mighty winds of destiny. How can we, mere creatures of causality refuse what has been pre-ordained by higher powers? How can we, with our insignificant wills, even dream to stand against this avalanche of predestined historical outcome, which is the American Dream? Mother, we stand no chance: We are the lost tribes of times long gone, hopelessly searching for our homeland, and not realizing that the arms of America are wide open, and are expecting nothing short of our abandonment in it. Mother, the Olympus is watching, the Gods rightfully expect the fulfillment of their will. Mother, I must go to America.

    Mother, nations will perish, but the American Dream will stand. Mother, eternity will come to an end, the American Dream will continue. Mother, the Tower of Babel and like minded endeavors will lie ruinous, the American Dream will tower above the heavens. I must go to America. Indeed, the paraphrase one of the many fine Americans out there: "We have not yet begun to sail to America." Yet, there, it lies right at the stretch of our fingertips: Far like reality, yet close like a dream.

    And what is holding us back from attaining it? Money. Yes, money. The virus of the ages. You know mother, this archaic notion, merely a step above bartering, will probably be outlawed very soon in America. Oh, yes indeed. Do not be surprised. It will probably be outlawed very soon and that continent will be using smiles as their currency. Oh, this is quite serious mother. What else could it be? Such wealth, such innovation, such reason, such progress... Anything less than a smile, will certainly be inadequate.

    Mother, give me America or give me death. Oh, yes, it is that serious indeed. No need to laugh, a lot is at stake here. Mother, we should no longer ask what I can do for our country, but rather what our country can do for me. It is the duty of this country, not merely this family, to send me to America, for indeed my success will not simply be shared among us as a family, but among us as a people. We must endorse our destiny as a people, mother: I must leave at once. Give me America... Produce, America.... Give me America or give me death.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

  3. #3


    Ja, kjo,
    vera qe adhuroj,
    dhe therrimet e tavolines
    rrugeve te zbrazura
    ne ore te caktuara.
    Fytyra ime
    ne nje gjendje trupore te cuditshme
    me shpirtin e cuditshem!
    Le te bejme nje cope udhe
    se bashku me te tere zhurmat tona
    ne bisedat uniseksuale
    ku flasim per ty e per mua
    lidhur me gjera qe s'i njohim.
    do te cuditemi dhe ne...
    Dhe do te flasim,
    per subjekte jokonkrete
    duke meshiruar vdekjen;
    jeten dhe zarat e fatit.
    Gjarperinjte neper kembe
    helmi i muzikes qe me percohet
    ne detajet e rimekembjes
    se cdo geni.
    Mpleksemi ne lokale te shthurur
    dhe nxjerrim dashurite e njeri-tjetrit
    me vetedijen e qarte
    te dhimbjes se fshehur
    egove te pazbuluara.
    Na joshin vetmite
    e te nderkryer mekateve
    njesojme monotonine e shpirtit.
    Rruget e zbrazura
    na joshin, gjithashtu
    verandat, bisedat e pasditeve,
    ndonje shetitje e rralle,
    dhe rallehere dashuria.
    Ne pranvere, te gjithe dashurohen,
    Ne vjeshte duam te ecim
    tinezisht duke shpresuar
    qe ndonje gjethe te na bjere ne ecjen tone
    nen syte e se dashures;
    me veprimet e ngadalta
    rrebeshet e deshires, dimrave,
    e kjo, vera qe adhuroj,
    e dashur ne ore te caktuara
    si dashuria.

  4. #4
    E gjifa Maska e Henri
    Kisha kohe pa lexuar nje shkrim kaq te gjate me njė frymė. Urime autorit/es.

  5. #5


    Bardhesia e trotuareve
    te veres
    ne shandanet e menduar
    me vite te zjarrte
    si kjo dite,
    tek hijet e zbehta
    te diteve te nxehta
    ku fokusohen idete
    e marramendjes.
    Me mendimet e lodhura
    dhe fjalet e ntrashura
    i ulur diku,
    pak rendesi ka, ku;
    djersa qe na afron
    me bulezat e saj
    qe kujtojne permallshem
    orgazmat e dikurshme
    dhe fjalet qe na kane eksituar.
    Une e ti, jemi te paqarte!
    Na akuzojne
    si te pakuptueshem, ndonjehere,
    dhe ndonjehere
    na evitojne per kete arsye.
    E kuptueshme: jemi te paqarte!
    Me afrohet koka
    drejt tavolines
    kur shkruaj, dhe poezia
    me rreshqet
    prej sysh feminore
    pa driten brenda tyre, por,
    nuk perseritemi;
    fale dikujt qe nuk njohim.
    Dhe ja, prape, ne kete tavoline...
    pa sfonde per t'u clodhur,
    me duart e lodhura mbi te,
    pa ditur c'ka mbetur pa thene
    e qe ne mund te shtojme ende...
    nese duhet te shtojme!

  6. #6


    Dhimbja e kokes
    nga libra me emra te paqarte,
    me intesitetin e vdekjes
    ne lokalet qe frekuentoj
    kur perflitemi... e na perflasin.
    Ky muzg deshire,
    si nje qen i trembur
    nga pavetedija
    qe me largohet si nje mik zemre
    duke me lene
    nen shokimin e subkoshiences
    te vrare e perterire
    sa e sa here
    nga librat qe adhuroj.
    E me ka mbetur...
    Si nje alpinist i varur
    diku ne shpirt
    qe lendon shpirtin tim...
    Horizontet, qe mbase shtrihen perpara meje, te
    c'me mbetet te shoh?!
    Asgje; paksa i lene ne hije
    nen reflekse te zeza
    te veteveshtrohem.
    Ne sfond fytyren
    dhe te turbullt
    akrepat e ores
    ne arin e tyre
    me duart mbi fytyre
    duke lene
    vec pak pjese te arrira,
    i pergjysmuar...
    Ne gjysem deshirat per te shkruar,
    i percare,
    nga ndjenja te neveritshme;
    me sende te cuditshme
    kudo ne boten time
    qe duket sikur me ndjekin
    ne nxirjen e vizioneve
    duke vrapuar per te hapur
    deren qe troket vazhdimisht
    nga njerez qe ende flasin,
    rrotullohen ngadalshem
    ne erresiren e pamjes se paqarte
    teksa deshironim renien..
    A e deshiroj?
    Duke deshiruar renien,
    por pa e ditur:
    Ne jam ky, apo duhet te jem une!

  7. #7

    Per shpetimin

    Nese askush nuk mund ta thote
    lereni me mire
    te mos ndodhe.

  8. #8


    Nje forme e re!
    Me pelqen, me pelqen.
    Eshte nje dicka tjeter
    per te cilen kam nevoje
    si breshka e ujit
    per ngadalsine e saj neveritese.
    Kam nevoje
    per dicka disi te zbrazet
    qofte edhe te ndryshme
    dicka qe te mos me ngrere peshe:
    Nuk eksitohet, nuk eksitohet.
    Nuk eksitohem
    me jeten e bukur
    qe rreshqet ne fytyren time
    duke lene gezimet dhe perjetimet
    si shenja perjetesisht te frikshme.
    ne syte e tu te nxire
    ka dicka qe nuk me eksiton.
    Megjithese pa interes,
    s'mund te bej pa te,
    pa pak neveri qe ndjej per ty,
    duke dashur te mos e bej shprehi,
    dicka pa te cilen s'do te mund te vazhdojme,
    do te detyrohemi te rrime indiferente
    ne lokalet e papajtueshem te moshes
    nder urat gri te komes e infarktit,
    me percmimin si virtyt
    dhe ata qe na dashurojne per pak
    larg nesh,
    ne nje moment te caktuar turbullues.
    Ulur ca me tutje
    me veshtrime triumfale
    neper parvazet e koherave
    ku mjegulla psheretitese
    peshperisin dashurine.
    Le te mbytemi ne Sene, me mire,
    sesa ne zhubravitjet
    e letrave te lamtumires.
    Aromat qe harrohen nder sirtare;
    modeli i flokeve te tu,
    dy a tri fjale
    dhe buzeqeshjet qe na tendosnin egoizmin.
    Ti, une,
    dhe shume gjera te tjera aspak interesante
    nder te cilat ajo qe e quajtem dashuri.
    Shoqeria ku ishim ne qender te vemendjes;
    dhe ti qe s'kuptoje poezine.

  9. #9


    Endrrat, librat
    dhe dashuria ime per ty
    si ne ndonje antologji
    te ftohte,
    karruseli i femijerise
    jeta dhe qiejt e hapur
    ne deshirat e mija per pyetje:
    C'kerkon? Kush je?
    Hapesirat e kontraktuara
    ne boten e minjve
    nevoja per drite
    me kohen
    qe shkon drejt fundit te saj.
    Ky mbipopullim mutant
    i mendimeve ne tru
    si pluhuri qe la nje statuje
    e paperfunduar.
    Bloza e oxhaqeve ne dimer,
    kolera ne vere
    ne rruget e zhuritura
    sikur te jene droguar
    qe me kalojne ne mendje
    me indiferencen e dritave te nates
    duke lene shenjat e reve
    dhe i detyruar
    te jem i verber ose i vdekur!:
    s'duhet te jem une.

  10. #10
    your incubus
    shpresoj te di anglisht ajo albanian mother
    gjuha jote eshte blu blu blu blu blu ne portokalli

  11. #11

    Vera e fundit

    Vera e fundit, zoteri!
    Dhe mjaf me...
    Ketu perpara jush
    keni silueten e mbetur
    te atij qe s'do te kthehet me!
    Siluete shpirterash...
    Por ju jeni me siguri nga ata
    qe s'reagojne ndaj dhimjes.
    Era rrotullohet neper Univers
    si per te gjetur dicka jo monotone
    duke krijuar keshtu vetveten,
    ate me te riperseritshmen.

    Ka shume menyra,
    shume menyra,
    per te arritur ate qe dua,
    ka shume menyra:
    S'mund t'i jepem vetem njeres.

    "S'me intereson"

    Pajtoni i fundit zoteri,
    dhe s'ka me.
    Do te me kujtojne hera heres,
    dhe do te me harrojne.
    I permendur vetem ne biseda
    sa per te shtyre kohen.
    Me flihet, me flihet.
    Edhe dores time, gjithckaje,
    turbullt i flihet.
    Si arinjte ne dimer,
    autostradat ne vere,
    por duhet edhe nje poezi,
    nje tjeter poezi
    per te mbajtur veten pas dickaje
    qe mund te me mbaje,
    qe mund te me shtyje,
    per te shkruar edhe nje tjeter
    per te ecur sadopak,
    pastaj per te fjetur.
    Nese do te me flihet ende;
    ne kete, kjo, ketu,
    qe ndodhet perpara jush, kjo...
    Kjo vera e fundit, zoteri.

  12. #12


    Ndjenjat jane si nje rrjedhoje erotike.
    Magnetofoni mbi komodine;
    nje shuk letre
    mbi disqet qe deshiroj.
    nje shi i imet
    lag bisedat e harruara.
    Nder to,
    sharje te zbehta
    me veshtrojne miqesine,
    dashurite e zvetnuara.
    Jam nje mesymje e vetvetes
    qe rrjedh
    si akrepi i sekondave te ndaluara.
    Aty ku noton vetedija
    e ti kerkon vec dike ku te besosh,
    duke m'u drejtuar:
    A me deshiron?
    Po une s'njoh asnje deshire!...
    Jam Sena ku mbyten ikjet.
    Kush jeni?
    Jeni krahet e oqeaneve
    somnambul tek ecin rrugeve
    te letersise qe adhuroj
    si Ajnshtajni violinen.

  13. #13


    Kam endrren time personale
    mbi pavdeksine;
    qe ne vere me djersitet
    e ne dimer
    me futet ne shpirtin e ftohte.
    Te dy se bashku
    s'kemi fare se c'te bejme
    derisa te vije momenti
    qe te dy me ankth presim
    per te kryer secili detyren e tij.
    Megjithate, ne vere,
    e shoh te harboje rrugeve,
    te rrezohet e te ngrihet
    e te motivohet nga dhimbja
    ne jeten e nxire te nates.
    Ne dimer,
    nga nje vetekultivim
    i mosdinjitetit
    me shtrihet
    ne te tere qenien time
    duke me mbyllur syte
    e i ndjeshem
    mund te perplasem kudo.
    Ne te dy stinet e tjera
    s'para e ve re.
    Jam zakonisht
    i depresionuar
    e mbeshtetem teresisht
    tek alkooli.
    cdo udhehapje te re
    e ndajme te dy.

  14. #14


    Ky trendafil i vyshkur
    qe zevendeson zemren tende
    dhe keto mendime qe s'te hyjne me ne pune
    permes te cilave
    shikoj frazat
    dhe format e cuditshme
    qe nuk me perkasin,
    por qe kur ulemi ne tavoline,
    te tera me veshtrojne, pa drojtje
    me sy te larget
    e fytyra prej kukullash
    ndjenjash te balsamosura...
    Rrudhat e bezdisura te carcafit
    pak pagjumesi
    dhe disa ide te trishta
    qe me ndjellin deshiren
    per te lozur me organet e tua
    me teorine time
    te veres dhe dhunes.
    perkatesisht, kemi pjeset e ndara
    te nje luleje qe duhet
    trendafilin e vyshkur;
    kercellin e thate, pa gjemba.
    Kemi planet reciproke
    per te dale hapur
    ne ekstaza violente
    tekstualisht te dhunshme
    sipas deshirave tona personale.
    E kjo dashuri e verber
    qe zevendeson zemren time...
    ....eshte gati ne te thyer.

  15. #15
    e kthjellet dhe e kalter Maska e Niagara
    Bravo i pakapshem! Me pelqyen shume poezite e tua.
    Ndoshta je i pakapshem, por je i prekshem ama!
    Fjalet e embla jane si nje huall mjalti,
    embelsi per shpirtin dhe ilac per kockat.
    Fjalet e Urta 16:24

  16. #16


    Per ty dhe Granaden
    kete poezi te perzishme dedikuar!
    Me qelbin e lekures
    dhe diteve te nxehta
    oborreve ku kalojne
    cupezat e tua
    te vdekura
    nen driten e zbehte te Henes.
    Ju te dy,
    dhe dashuria e psheretimave
    per udhekryqet.
    Tamam tek ty
    ku ne zemer
    hyn si nje thike e ndryshkur
    helmi i dashurise,
    ne trion
    me zhurmen e dy lumenjve
    te Granades.
    aty ku dashurojme te tere,
    e te tere jemi dashuruar,
    edhe ciganet!
    Ciganet e tu kryelarte
    qe vallezojne
    me deshirat e tyre te mishit
    si gjilpera nen kembe...
    Ne syte e vogelusheve te befasuar,
    te zeshket, klithin.
    Ata klithin;
    dhe une kam deshire...

    Per ty dhe Granaden
    rrugeve te shelgjeve
    ku mbreterojne puhite:
    Kjo poezi qelish...

  17. #17

    Per ty...

    Kam nevoje,

    per mungesen tende..!

    Dhe per veshtrimin tend qe me dashuron.

  18. #18


    Thith nje fraze banale,
    sikur thith nje cigare,
    perpara nje dritareje
    duke te reflektuar
    vec nje rreth drite
    ne fytyre,
    permes helmit
    qe shperndahet ne ajer, kudo,
    diku ku s'mund ta shoh,
    ta kontrolloj,
    e terheq pas vetes
    me te tere aromat qe permban,
    Dhe ky absurd i kesaj pikture
    qe kam perballe
    teksa mundohet te me trese deliret
    me ekstazat ne kujtese
    me terheq dhunshem
    drejt agonish qe s'i njoh
    per te me perfshire brenda tyre
    ne trillet e femrave plot epsh.
    Nje here, -tha, -
    mbaj mend
    qe iu afrova cvirgjerimit
    permes seksit me nje brune
    fare prane.
    Mbaj mend vetem zerin
    qe me tretej
    e zemren qe ralle here
    me rrihte shpejt,
    si i ngurosur
    pa emocione mendore,
    e me trupin te ngrire,
    Por me terheq,
    kjo mosnjohja, gjithashtu,
    me nderlidhjen e pasigurive,
    ne mocalet e jetes.
    Dhe ato pak hapa mistike;
    qe trokasin si therje diku larg
    ne koridoret e ftohte dhe te pajete
    te morgut qe aq mire njoh
    permes asaj vdekjeje personale
    qe me nje muzike ngjethese-mortore
    me aq ankth pres:
    mbase dhe se afermi;
    nuk e refuzoj.

Ruaj Lidhjet

Regullat e Postimit

  • Ju nuk mund tė hapni tema tė reja.
  • Ju nuk mund tė postoni nė tema.
  • Ju nuk mund tė bashkėngjitni skedarė.
  • Ju nuk mund tė ndryshoni postimet tuaja.