Duke qenë xhevahir në baltë

Se këtu nuk ka lotus dhe yjet janë lart në qiell

se qielli duket madhështor krahas vrimave të zeza

se si farët e lulerradhiqes fluturuan lart, lart në qiell

çka mbetet është shpirti im i zbritur

çiltërsi që trashendon në grimcë-valë sublime

që noton përreth duke u ngjitur lart duke lëvizur rreth e rrotull oreolit

të atyre që tek do të zgjohen, të atyre që tek do të bëhen avatar

të mijëvjeçarit të ri që të mësojnë për artin e jo për shkencën

sepse makinat shumë shpejt do të përzihen mes gjymtyrëve tona

dhe mes indit të trurit që shndrrohet në çivit

Fëmijë o fëmijë të mi dëgjohet zëri

i Tokës dhe pyet: kush do të krijoj

të gjelbërtën e kloroplasteve dhe të kuqen e hemoglobinës?

…dhe kush do të shkruaj diçka të amshueshme që quhet libër

një si kullë që ruan dhomat e të gjitha sekreteve?

Gem in the Mud

As here Lotus we lack and the stars are far above

as the heaven looks gorgeous despite the black holes

as the seeds of dandelion flew high high up in the sky

what remains is an ascended Soul of mine

the purity that transcends into sublime particles-waves

floating over floating up floating all around the nimbus

of those yet to be awakened, of those still to be avatars

of new millennia to teach arts instead of science

since the machines shall soon mingle among our extremities

and among our brain tissue that turns aquamarine

children oh children of mine is heard the scream

of Earth the scream that asks: who shall compose

the green of the chloroplasts and the red of the hemoglobin?

…and who shall build something eternal called the book

The one like tower that keeps chambers of all secrets?

Lulerradhiqeja

…dhe era shpërndan farërat me flatra

gjithandej. Kjo lulerradhiqe

padrejtësisht e quajtur njeri-

nga vet ai,

e në qiell sheh tërë Odisenë e jetës

nga re e formuar… dhe Zoti ta fal

tunikën prej rrezesh të përflakura

dhjetë herë- shtatë vite

të digjesh derisa ndryshku të bie.

Në thekërrishte me lulekuqe

ato çupëzat me kurora kamomile në kokë

tek vrapojnë, sumbulla djerse në ballë

shfaqin mahnitjen e nënave

në rrudhat e ballit nënat fshehin vite

nëpër të cilat erandje

prej kriheve engjëllore shpërndahet

erandje e engjillit të krahut të majtë

erandje e engjëllit të krahut të djathtë!

Në Marash

Kurrë nuk

u mbyllën

gojët, madje

as kur vetëm

heshtnim në

Marash dhe

ti humbe

qaforen prej

guaskash nga

Oqeani Indian.

Tek dëgjoja

gurgullimën

e Bushtricës,

ndjeja aromën

suptile

të luleborave

që përziheshin

me atë nga

gusha jote

e bardhë.

Në sy të tu

shihja luanin

me krifën

e shprishur

në atë feksje

sysh

dukesha se

forca do të

jap ëmbëlsi,

e kur

u përqafuam

maje gjethesh

Salepi të egër

u shfaqën

mbi dheun

e mbuluar

me gjethe të rëna

bojëkafe dhe

mes degësh

të thyera

të bungut.

Dielli hapërronte

si njeri.

Dy pilivesa

kopulonin

ndërsa njerëzit

s’pushuan

kurrë s’pushuan

me dërdëllitjet.

Qaforja prej guaskash

Përballë gjithë shndritjes sonë

bulët e mallkimit ranë

mbi lëkurën gjentile.

Në rrugën tonë për në varreza të vjetra

një tufë engjëjsh vështronin

kalimtarët.

Ne ishim kalimtarët

të cilët shkelnin dheun

që ne gati e mbushëm

derisa ai u ngop si barku

i të pasurit.

Të pasur ne nuk ishim

por ishim të ngopur me

gjera tokësore që ngufatnin hapësirën tonë

dhe vendbanimin tonë.

Ndjenjat tona për një kohë

kur njerëzit ishin në gjendje të dashurojnë

pa e thënë atë ose

flasin pa e artikuluar atë

mallojnë më shumë

sesa për një kafshatë të bukës së përditëshme.

Si rravgues e si vrojtues

ne qëndruam mbi varrezat të vjetrish

grash, femijësh dhe

disa prej tyre me vete morën

me xhelozi duke ruajtur

Lithopedion e tyre.

Të vetëdijshëm ishim për këtë

por asnjë fjalë nuk mund ta ketë një forcë të tillë

të pëlcas dhe eksplodojë.

Në të kthyerit tonë

zemra ime humbi xherdanin e punuar

nga guaskat e Oqeanit Indian

të cilin e bleva ne bazarin e Jerusalemit

nga tregëtari Armen dhe

ne nuk jemi pishman.

Fundi i ditës së kujtimeve të përvëluara

Askush nuk na vinte në verën e vonë

kur i nxehti digjte trupat tanë e këmbët i ftohnim

në kovën e kuqe ku gjyshja dikur mbante

kumbullat e mbledhura dhe me to bënte pekmez

Tingujt e lutjeve aromatike kaherë i dëgjuam duke kaluar

skaj teqes së madhe të kasabasë sonë, ku të gjithë ama të gjithë

pinin ujin me dekada të ngarkuara me duaj vuajtjesh

të ngjyrave të ndryshme dhe lagështisë me aromë gjaku

Njëherë bashkë, nëse të kujtohet Jasemini im

vrapuam pas pilivesave buzë moçalit me shavare të arta dhe i lidhëm ato

me pejë mëndafshi të kuq për kofshë të këmbëve tona të majta

dhe kujtuam se në atë mënyrë i largojmë xhinet e kobshme

Edhe ditë me sot askush nuk mund të na ndante… sa do që

ende të pasigurt ndaj të ligës së të kobshmëve dhe koprracëve në dashuri…

njerëzit duket se asnjëherë nuk do të heqin dorë nga ato

si ne të cilët njëherë u mësuam të duam

e asnjëherë nuk u çmësuam prej asaj që të vuajmë për përhershmëri

dhe ca ditë me shumë…

The mist of “I”

There are nine layers folding the “I”, and
The aerial textures harmoniously wrapped
The being immaculate virgin and innocent
The one that loves for eternity and a day more

Every word that kisses it
Feels the gentility of its skin
The transparent silk reveals
Its torso evoking sexual desires
The dormant desires

Yet the smile comes in the front of it, and
The voice infrasonic melody in the air
Foresees the further step of the prodigy
The birds in the sky show their happiness

I remain grateful

(I was) born to write

A hexagonal small building in the middle of exceedingly beautiful yard

Forty Neon light beings- faceless, nameless, body-less, surrounded me

and a book so huge placed in the middle of the room, leaked perfume bottle

spread the smell in the okra pages all over written with rounded letters.

I happen to read all about human anatomy before this blast of vision.

I happen to be smaller in age, in soul, in being of utmost humbleness.

I happen to walk through sleepless nights completely naked of skin.

4 pears

Early in the morning two squabs on a window-post cleaned the feathers

The wind started to shake boughs of the pears tree and the four unripe

Fruits were knocking on the glass to open the gates of my memories

Samir brought croissants from the bakery still hot and evaporating steam

Filled up the room of my grandmother we use to sleep during weekend

Almost no one could see what would become of us in two different

Countries that none had sea or any sacred water to wash our sins- all

of them. Inherited, made up, made off and running ones we did solely

jointly and shared what we in that time called celebration of youth

Palankin VII

1. Dikush e shkruan librin e vet të jetës,
2. dikush përshkruan librin e huaj dhe
3. hymnizohet edhe në kohën kur
4. profetë nuk ka dhe tempuj e orakuj s'ka.
5. Secili është lënë ta kërkoj zotin e vet,
6. atje ta gjej dëshpërimin e ta ndjej
7. madhësinë dhe peshën e tij.
8. Dikush shkruan librin e vdekjes
9. e dikush e përshkruan atë- zellshëm!

Authors, Poets, Critics on Fahredin Shehu's Work in Poetry

                                         Photo by Rromir Imami, Skopje, Macedonia, 2018




https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6923683.Fahredin_Shehu
a few words from the Publisher . . .
I first met Fahredin Shehu in September of 2015 at the inaugural Kosovo International Poetry Festival. I have known him through cyberspace since 2011 when we at Inner Child Press, now Inner Child Press International launched our first initiative of the anthology World Healing, World Peace.

Meeting Mr. Shehu, who I now embrace as my brother was a very rewarding experience in spite of my awe-struck consciousness of participating in my very first International Poetry Festival. I have since went on to be a part of, as well as being a key note speaker and lecturer at many other subsequent events to include Morocco, Tunisia, Macedonia, Jordan, Palestine to name a few. Because of Fahredin’s catalystic-ism, my personal poetic life has been greatly enhanced . . . but this is not about me, though it may appear so.

Mr. Shehu has that particular type of empowering, insightful and learned spirit that affects the unassuming and the “aware” in a very profound way. I once told my beloved hülya, that Fahredin is the type of soul who I could sit at his feet and listen as well as probe the depths of his knowledge and be quite content. I too am a lover of knowledge. In his conversation, this manuscript and all of his previous publishings if you listen carefully to the voice of his evocations and sharing there is a fruit, sometimes hidden and some times obvious. For myself, it is a divinely sweet fare that I always look forward to ingesting and hopefully digesting to add to the girth of my consciousness as I seek to expand. His poety makes it that much more palatable.

In conclusion, all I can say is that I hope you find Mr. Shehu, aka Fahredin, my brother’s work rewarding for your soul, your consciousness and the journey you are on.

Bless Up

Bill
Chairperson
Inner Child Press International


When a writing by a non-English native author is of the caliber that is exceptional in its exquisite versatility, an editor faces a challenging task: To maintain the integrity of textual complexity while situating the mechanical aspects of language into the authentic authorial voice. Fahredin Shehu is a courageously visionary writer of passionate dedication to any subject of universal relevance he takes upon himself. He is acutely aware of and knowledgeable in lyrical symbolism, the Islamic as well as Christian spiritual and mythological traditions, and linguistic heritages. Shehu does, however, not merely display his keen awareness and knowledge through his written art when his individual poetic objects are concerned but rather enriches the long-established perimeters of poetry as a genre at large. Where, when and to what extent, then, does an editor join in?

Fahredin Shehu is a writer who does not shy away from adopting a modernist approach for his lyrical compositions. Regardless of the name or the fame of an author, such tendency is too often misunderstood. The lack of punctuation, capitalization, a missing rhyme scheme, etc. but also the use of non-Western referents in any given verse are largely viewed by those in the field as “a mistake”. HERENOW displays a considerable number of poems in which the author does not allow such potential critique to standardize his writings. He does not deviate from his creativity. In fact, he is masterfully attuned to it. In sum: He eloquently and confidently assumes poetic license.

It may be safely argued though that poetic license should not obscure important content. The entire work of a writer who is not a native of an English language-environment can easily be mistaken as being flawed, if that work’s content is not adjusted to fit into the broad context of the philological target. And, it is herein where the editor’s work comes in. HERENOW, thus, has only been subjected to minor changes in language use and to selected application of the traditional form in order to represent itself for what it originally was: An outstanding literary creation.


hülya n. yılmaz, Ph.D.
Liberal Arts Professor, retired from Penn State
Director of Editing Services and Co-Chair,
Inner Child Press International

Stop worshipping Time, as Time is God no more. Distant Earths rotate, but for you there is no East or West. To be Here, to be Now, to bark like a dog, to be sonorous like the sky. There you find yourself resembling nobody and name your self Fahredin Shehu. The last angel of love on earth, or trying to be one.

Prof. Keijiro Suga
Meiji University, TOKYO

In Fahredin Shehu´s poetry I find a rare combination of passion and compassion. He is a learned poet who knows that true creativity in art is to know the traditions – his own first, and then the other important traditions –. Then the creative poet is adding something new into the traditions, something which was not there before his poem was created.
This is how I met the Kosovar poet Fahredin Shehu both as a person who became my friend, and his poetry which has developed into something very important during the last years.
Empathy is a word which I like to use when describing his poetry. Here we will find a closeness to earth, body, we find not just sensibility but also wonderful expressions of man´s lust. This is all combined with an awareness of the sacred. He is learned in symbolism and mythology, both from the Islamic and Christian traditions, but also from the rich folklore of his native part of Europe and wider.
He can be direct, he can be overwhelming, but first and foremost he expresses a sincere belief in poetry as a power to heal the wounded souls and show us something more important than greed and wealth. We read about East and West, here are also the North an the South. But the poet knows that whatever and wherever this is on our small planet Tell us, people are very much alike – seen from the perspective of the Universe. There is happiness and hope in these poems written by a poet from a small country where the people have been suffering for decades by wars and suppression.

Dr. Knut Ødegård
Norway

"Some poetry collections work on the emotions, some work on the intellect – HereNow works on all levels to beguile. These are poems that are deeply felt with something spiritual infusing them all. Spiritual not religious, though the poems often find a wellspring in Sufi approaches to Islam which underlines the journeys made, the reaching out from the personal, the familial to the universal. There is an immediacy here; poems are sensual with smell, taste, sound, touch taking you to the heart of being there. There are also fierce and angry poems that rail at injustice and offer love instead. One poem, Toward Hope, might well have been the title of the collection – “Say a word, oh poet/ the word as rocket to hit/ the hearts made of stone”. HereNow is such a rocket."

Dr Patrick Lodge
Ireand/ Walles (less)


Fahredin Shehu is a highly Noted and Acclaimed World Renowned Poet, Author, Teacher and so much more.

Fahredin hails from Rahovec, South East of Kosova and has been embraced affectionately for his acutely gifted insightful poetic expressions by the Global Poetry Community. The depth and knowledge of many spiritual aspects that affect Humanity subtly shines through in his work. Pleroma’s Dew is such a graceful work that serves to add to the accolades of this much celebrated Poet / Author / Philosopher.

We are deeply humbled and honored here at Inner Child Press to be able to work with such a Gifted Human Being.

William Samuel Peters

Inner Child Press, New York, USA

Il poeta Fahredin Shehu stesso definisce il suo modo di comporre “noetico”. La Noetica è quella psudo scienza filosofica che studia le correlazioni dell'universo della mente (coscienza, anima, spirito)e ha come oggetto di ricerca il cosiddetto "sesto senso" e un diverso rapporto al conscio.

Se si guarda l'etimologia della parola Noetica potrebbe stare anche nel senso “di Noè”, e siccome è risaputo che il grande personaggio biblico faceva uso, a volte non moderato, di vino, poesia noetica potrebbe significare anche poesia sotto i fumi dell'ebbrezza. A parte la battuta io credo che la poesia di Fahredin, più che alla Noetica si rifaccia al filone letterario e poetico del “Nonsense” cioè

espressione (parola, frase o altro) che appare priva di significato. La letteratura del nonsenso, sia poesia che prosa, si basa sull'equilibrio tra ordine e caos, tra senso compiuto e non. Spesso presenta un mondo capovolto o alterato. Presenta frequentemente, ma non sempre, una matrice umoristica, ma non è il caso di Fahredin. La correttezza formale è spesso bilanciata da un caos semantico o dai doppi significati. Secondo Wim Tigges l'effetto del nonsensi è spesso ottenuto per eccesso di significati, e non per assenza.

Per intenderci un esempio di Nonsense è la canzone “Cuccurucù paloma” di Battiato, ma anche e soprattutto Il linguaggio onirico di James Joyce nella novella Finnegans Wake e in certi passaggi di Dubliners e dell'Ulisse. Ma anche Edward Lear (1812-1888) e Lewis Carroll (1832-1898), John Lennon, Frank Zappa, Rino Gaetano e ancora giù giù Nino Frassica o la celebre “Supercazzola con scappellamento a destra come fosse Antani” degli Amici miei di Monicelli.

Mario Rigli, Poet and Translator, Italy

TALKING TO THE POEM . . .

Striving towards blasphemous response to the expressed wishes, Fahredin Shehu finds his journey within the stated desire of creation seeking.

What kind?

Entanglement of words, thoughts and aspirations. And not just any: sincere, genuine emotion which aspires towards Love. Not even for a moment not wanting to ignore the fact that he "talks poetry, " he "is talking to the poem".

How?

Transfusing his own inspiration with the richness of the metaphor

out of implied acts? Yes.

And even more: Significantly emphasizing the size of other

detriment of his own hopes. Convinced that with this helps himself to finally understand his own personality. In the other. Because of himself.

While we read between the lines. Because he is heading towards

that.

Again. Because of himself.

And, sometimes, because of us.

Readers, of his.

Sabahudin Hadzialic

Diogen Magazine, Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina

Fahredin Shehu’s poetry in Pleroma’s dew is full of critical awareness and with humor. Amazing imagination, make his poetry open wings free to fly, and rich imagery in poems; whether write flowers, trees, and even every little life, of all comes from his subtle observation and rational thinking.

For Fahredin, poetry is from God's gift, and is a cultural spirit.

Hadaa Sendoo

Editor-in-chief of World Poetry Almanac

La Poesía de Fahredin Shehu

Ampliamente conocido en Europa del Este y asimismo traducido a diversas lenguas, tanto del Viejo Mundo como de América, Fahredin Shehu es un notable exponente de la poesía contemporánea que ha merecido trasponer les fronteras de su país, Kosovo. Siendo poco difundida  en nuestro medio la poesía proveniente de Europa Oriental, es interesante para el lector adentrarse en ella a través de uno de sus mejores ejemplos.

El poema seleccionado para traducirlo de su versión inglesa, titulado ”Asi hablo Tamara”, exhibe reminiscencias de Walt Whitman  -por la amplitud de su abarcamiento y el tono a veces bíblico de sus versos- que se combinan con matices de trascendentalismo sin duda provenientes de la formación universitaria de su autor.

Luis Benitez

Buenos Aires, Argentina 

https://www.worldartfriends.com/en/club/criticize/authors-poets-critics-publishers-fahredin-shehu-s-work-art

Near Prizren

I could not burry my father
for the first time
after the war when I went

toward empty roads of Prizren
with the thoughts of return
stepping Via Ignatia
where the temple without oracle was

In those mornings
two things I could not by-stand
the smell of Cilantro and
the rage of lust

Today when I zealously count my gray hair
whose in number exceeds
the written words
I did write in twenty-five years
my mouth is drying solely for a word
of a distant friend
who heals the wound of juvenile

distrust from there

We my love
are going to fast today
just as before, but
we shall look God
in the eyes of children
that sparkles
in each longing

For KIBATEK- With Ankha Michaela Bruma

1.     What is your experience with poetry festival? A) As an organizer of it, Poetry and Wine festival B) AS a participant to other poetry festivals

As an organizer I think in two categories, one as Poet and another as Facilitator. As poet surely I did not read but was able to see people for the fist time and people who never knew each other before had the opportunity to meet, exchange books, and collaborate in the future. As a facilitator to other poets a gatherings such as festivals are huge responsibility and exhaustive, yet the pleasure remains and continues. As an organizer you should understand that it is pretty huge burden but the felling of responsibility and strengthening the relationships, unification with others, new contacts, contribution to the World Literary scene, this also means economic growth for the particular area. In such events there’s no losers, everybody gains physically, artistically and spiritually.

Poetry Festivals have broadened not only my experience as poet in terms of getting to know directly from the reading of the others, their perspectives, their trends etc., they are also helpful in creation of Human and Artistic Bonds.

2.     What experience you gained from such literary exposure.

It all depends how much you impede seriously, how much effort and dedication, how much you are open to others. My experience is always incredible. I love Earth, I love every Country and I wish to visit all countries. And every poet brings some distinction from her/his culture and heritage. The real magic happens in follow up after everything is gone. Communication afterwards, collaboration, book exchange etc.

3.     What do you know about KIBATEK in general? Have you heard about this Literary foundation before or just recently?

I’ve heard of KIBATEK earlier as I was invited some years ago in Izmir, Turkey but couldn’t attend due to personal justified reasons. I have also been invited by respected Leyla Isik to attend in Italy but it was amidst my Festival so I again could not attend and contribute. I really look forward the upcoming edition.

4.     What are you expectations in relation o KIBATEK 40 festival?

I’m looking forward to get to know other people, their work, contribute to the festival with debate and active participation.

http://ancamihaela16.blogspot.ae/2016/04/interview-with-fahredin-shehu-by-anca-m.html

https://www.facebook.com/groups/1746225478956873/1760278197551601/?notif_t=like_tagged&notif_id=1461251337970257

Tribute to Antoni Bertoli, Espace Senghor, Le Jardan, Brussels, May 2016

Unë kam kohë

…sepse mësimet që i mësova 
ishin të vrazhda si plagë shpirti 
nuk u shëruan asnjëherë nga asnjë ilaq i njohur 
as lumturia, as buzëqeshja e madje as edhe puthja 
vetëm DASHURIA nuk lë hije

sepse unë kam kohë të dëgjojë 
të qarët e jetimit 
dhe të qeshurat në çerdhe fëmijësh

Unë kam kohë ta ngjes 
polenin e lulediellit 
në qepallët e mia dhe 
vrapoj përreth në grurishten e artë

Kam kohë t’i shartojë llastarët 
dhe eglendisem me aromën e luleve të imëta të rrushit 
vrapojë përgjatë vreshtave 
të fëmijërisë sime të largët

Unë kam kohë yjet t’i numërojë 
Siç bëra dikur si i ri dhe 
yjet më të mëdhenjë që i numërova 
Ato shfaqën lytha në duar të mia

Unë kam kohë t’i kap dy ylberë 
e t’i lidh ato në nyjen e marinarit 
që është atje lartë në majë mali

Unë kam kohë për lulet e qershisë 
në kopshtin e sajë dhe pres  
frute pasionante shumë para 
vapës së gushtit derisa 
ne ftohnim shalqinin në 
përroskën rrjedhëse të dëshirave

Unë kam kohë t’i dëgjojë  
pëshpëritjet erotike të bylbylave 
dhe dëgjojë melodi të shkëlqyera  
që të dytë përçojnë nëpër eter

Unë kam kohë ta vjetërojë verën veç të vjetër 
uthëll për shërim ta bëj 
dhe terr djathin më të mirë Kosove 
nga malet më të larta të Sharit

Unë kam kohë të mbledh petalet 
të kuqërremta, pembe dhe të verdha nga 
kopshti i gjyshes sime 
dhe gatuaj reçel për ta shijuar ditën

Unë kam kohë të vizitojë të sëmurët 
dhe shëroj gjakderdhjen nga 
gjuri i të birit tim të lastuar 
i cili vrapon pas fluturave blu 
në muzg të verës së vonë

Unë kam kohë t’i kreh flokët e gjata 
të çupëzës sime dhe parfumojë ato 
me vaj livande dhe 
numërojë dhëmëbët e saja si perla nga 
thellësitë e Oqeanit të madh

Unë kam kohë të mbledh koralet e kuqe 
ta bëj qaforën për nusen time të dashur ndërsa

nga leshteriku të disenjojë fustan të bukur të qëndisur

me dashurinë timë më të skajshme

Unë kam kohë të vuaj për të barqet 
e uritura diku larg nga 
të korrurat e mia të bollshme dhe 
shpërndajë ato larg këtej

Unë kam kohë të vë mjaltë në fletë formë 
zemre të gjethe- dellit 
të shërojë plagë dielli të të tradhëtuarve dhe...
dhe lexoj & përgjigjem miqëve të largët të 
Facebook-ut të cilët ma urojnë ditëlindjen

Unë kam kohë ta shikojë hënën tek ngjitet 
lartë në kodër dhe di se ajo 
nuk është e ndarë vetëm se  
qepalla ime është e thyer

Unë kam kohë të dua, dua, dua... 
vetëm sepse dua dhe 
nuk ka asgjë tjetër të lihet pas 
asgjë përpos Dashurisë njeriu nuk mund të pendohet 

I have time

…for the lessons I’ve learned

Were severe as soul’s wounds

Never cured by any known remedy

No happiness, no smile nor a kiss

Only LOVE leaves no shade

For I have time to listen

The cry of the orphan

And the smiles in kindergarten

I have time to attach

The pollen of the sunflower

On my eyelashes and

Run over a golden Wheatfield

I have time to grafting sharts

And enjoy the smell of grape’s tiny flowers

Run across the vineyards

Of my distant childhood

I have time to count the stars

As I did as juvenile and

biggest stars I enumerated

showed the nipples in my hands

I have time to grab two rainbows

And knot them in sailor’s knot

High above the mountain’s peak

I have time for cherry blossoms

In her garden and wait for

The passionate fruits far before

The heat of August while

We cool the watermelon in

A flowing ravine of desires

I have time to hear

The erotic whispers of nightingales

And hear splendid melodies

They both deliver to the ether

I have time to mature the already old wine

And make vinegar for healing

And dry the best cheese of Kosovo

From the highest Shar mountains

I have time to collect scarlet

Pink and yellow rose- petals from

The garden of my grandmother

And make a jam to rejoice the day

I have time to visit sick

And heal the bruise from

The ankle of my spoiled son

Who run after blue butterflies?

In the sunset of the late spring

I have time to comb long hairs

Of my daughter and perfume them

With lavender oil and

Count her teeth as pearls from

Depths of the grand ocean

I have time to collect red corals

To make a necklace for my beloved wife

And out of kelp

Design a dress well embroidered with

My utmost Love

I have time to suffer for the hungry

Stomach somewhere far from my

Abundant crops and

Deliver it far away

I have time to put honey on the heart shaped

Leafs of plantain

To heal the sunburn of betrayed and

And read & respond to distant Facebook

Friends greeting my birthday

I have time to contemplate

The most difficult Koan

And do remember MY-ness

Instructed by Gurdijjeff

I have time to watch the Moon climbing

Above the hill and know it’s

Not split in two just because

Of my broken eyelash

I have time to Love, Love, Love…

Just because I Love and

There’s nothing to be left over

Nothing but Love one may not regret

Me Serge Pey, Amir Or, Jack Hirschman, David Gianonni, Marco Parente

Me Gilles Bernard Vechon

Me Jack Hirschman

Tribute to Antoni Bertoli, Brussels, 14 May 2016