Nighttime traveller of this world
(Udhëtar i natës së kësaj bote)

He did not get up like everyone else - in the morning
For him the day began in the trenches of the desperate
He arrived in this world from the night
And travels nocturnally to reach the day’s end

He did not get up when the sun rose
Nor was he born when ants awakened
In the final analysis you cannot write poetry about him
Because he is not human but a mole feeding
On the rotting roots of this world
He is neither alone nor with friends
To do his portrait you need shadows
Greyish hues and light filtering in through the fog

He did not get up like everyone else - in the morning
He travels his whole life long from the edge
To the heart of darkness

He belongs - as they say - to the family of the mole
Which respectable folk chase with poison
To protect their healthy roots

You cannot write even a verse about him
Although he is sensitive and employed
Married to a wife who loves him, with two or three children
With two or three mortgages and an apartment
In the third district of the second residential zone
Of local municipality number one in region number three

And yet - he is sensitive
He twice attempted to commit suicide
The third time no one noticed
He stopped in the middle of the road
And did not go through with it
For a beautiful day dawned, startled him and frightened him off

He did not get up like everyone else
Nor has he ever washed his face in the morning dew
The light reflecting in the sparkling waters of the pristine well
Always keeps him blind
This is why he does not sleep when the rest of us do
He does not get up when everyone else does
He is quite prosaic on matters of poetry
You cannot write a ballad, modern verse
Or short lyrics about him
He is someone you never notice
From Building No. 7 of District No. 3, Unit CX 12/7, No. 23
On the 12th floor of Residence 47, left wing
A proletarian with a milk bottle at the door every day
And a roll of newspapers criticizing the degenerate morals
Of the world in which he lives

Any verse about him would be without appeal
And yet
He lives in this world
And merits
Having two or three words
Written about him
In a poem