Bardhyl Londo

Ithaca slumbers under the September sky.
The olive trees are like women awaiting their tardy husbands.
I am filled with a longing for my home far away,
For my wife in Tiranë who will not sleep tonight.
Help me, Ulysses! Cast off your legendary cloak!
Tell me something wise, something fervent.
Roads begin, get lost, run forth, disappear
More intricate than the stitching on Penelope's woven gown.
Roads, roads, roads...
To the east, to the west,
To the Ionian, to the Aegean.
The times are indeed modern,
But you can lose the thread again
As in the time of Ulysses.
Which one will take me to my Ithaca?
Which word will calm my waiting wife?
Far from the sirens of the sea screaming hysterically once again,
Far from the Circes of the twentieth century!
I will not lose this road!
I will find it even blind!
We are all a little like Ulysses,
Even if we do not have a Penelope
We do have an Ithaca!

Translated by Robert Elsie