(Visar Zhiti, political prisoner in Communist Albania)
By Visar Zhiti
(Grotesque that I couldn’t get rid of, where any resemblance to a real president or event is accidental, except my likeness to myself…)
Limping demon… still they made you a president.
No horns on your head, but a heavy helmet,
You don’t really hold it, yet your head is strong.
Miserable comedian, cunningly idiot.
Idol’s bronze you carried on your back.
Blasphemously froze your hand and your leg.
How will you raise in darkness, on which cemetery or place,
The statue, crowds took down on bronze verdict day?
You can’t stand the living, who survived your hell…
Then decorate the slain, slaughtered by your brand.
You are the massacre of our time’s conscience,
Back side of rising, - the hoax of revolt…
What steppe brought you luck in this late winter frost?
Holes dig with every step, wretchedly limping demon.
You know not why you are, why time was so unwise?
President of no country, my country without president.