It’s been a while since I wrote.

Deliberately I have refused

Every wave of inspiration.

I’ve been silent, hiding

From papers, pens,

Keyboards and everything,

Where one can write on.

I never wanted to dive

Into feelings I didn’t want to want.

I am far too small

To withstand this wave,

Dressed in beads of salt,

That devours Tirana

Let alone me.

I couldn’t admit to myself

That the wave existed, and I

Was a pipsqueak facing it.

I wanted to forget the wave,

And the fragility of my bones.

But here I am, writing…

I couldn’t make it.

I am a chronic failure,

Stunned at the black keyboard

In a failed attempt

To ignore the soaked shirt,

Sleeping past dawn,

And the 100-kilogram heavy head:

Could thoughts weigh so heavily?

No one but words ever managed

To stand with me against this tide.

The city reeks of abandonment;

Feelings have turned cloying and stale.

In this summer heat,

Only the heavy scent of sweat remains,

Along with the droning hum of cicadas.

People have become like deserts.

Drought has draped their faces in her own.

The phantasmagoric stillness of heat can be read in their eyes.

They resemble dry stumps at the height of summer,

Dormant fires, until a cigarette,

Tossed by some passing stranger,

Destroys everything.

In these hopeless conditions,

I chose to let the wave swallow me.

And if it kills me,

At least it will cool me down.

I would have died either way.

Better to drown,

Smileward.

Oh wave, take me,

Today I call out to you.

When the sun falls,

Cradle me in your waters,

Cool, yet warmly filled

With tales and stories

Unknown to this impossible Saharan reality.

I want you to weave me a fairy tale

About a land far, far away,

Where heat is never so cruel

That even a smile feels like a burden,

And a greeting… an impossible mission,

Numbed by anger,

Blinded by the August sun.

Jona Cenameri