gëzim hajdari

in today's lyrikmail was an untitled poem written by gëzim hajdari, an albanian poet whose works have been translated from italian into german by stefanie golisch. my italian is very, very basic, so when i translated this poem i translated the german version first, then secondly double-checked it as well as i could with the italian original. as usual, i allowed for a couple of translational liberties.


you know i would have scribed the most beautiful book
i have written with the tip of a knife
into my skin,
remember, that march, the Judas trees blossomed
with terror and joy at those valleys' verges.
perhaps the most beautiful book
emerged from my ashes and attuned to your life,
i wrote it in the vacancy of that room while looking out through that window
witnessing time and the recurrence of seasons
lost by rain's nudity.
i wrote it in penury,
on moonsick, culpable days,
far from you, from your gloamings,
from one waterside to the other i shouldered
books from a country that glorifies tyrants


Ich sagte dir, dass ich mein schönstes Buch
mit der Spitze des Messers
in meine Haut geritzt haben würde,
weißt du noch, März war, der Judasbaum blühte
erschrocken und freudig an den Rändern der Schlucht.
Vielleicht habe ich das schönste Buch,
das aus meiner Asche stieg und deinem Leben gleicht,
in der Verlassenheit jenes Zimmers geschrieben,
als ich aus dem Fenster blickte,
Zeuge der Zeit und der Wiederkehr der Jahreszeiten,
welche die Nacktheit des Regens streifte.
Ich schrieb es in äußerster Armut,
in mondkranken, verzweifelten Tagen,
fern von dir, fern deiner Dämmerungen,
trug ich von einem Ufer zum anderen
Bücher aus einem Land, das Tyrannen vergöttert


Ti avevo detto che il libro più bello
l’avrei scritto con la punta del coltello,
sulla mia pelle,
ricordi, era marzo, fiorivano i siliquastri
con spavento e gioia ai margini dei burroni.
Forse il libro più bello,
sorto dalle mie ceneri e che assomiglia alla tua vita,
l’ho scritto nella stanza sgombra mentre guardavo dalla finestra
il testimone del Tempo e il ritorno delle stagioni
sfiorate dalla nudità delle piogge.
L’ho scritto in povertà estrema,
nei miei giorni di pena e maldiluna,
distante da te, distante dai tuoi crepuscoli,
portando sulle spalle da una sponda all’altra
libri di un paese che adora i tiranni