Albi

Albanians
Albi
Dragons
Why is there Racism?
Bubble Gum
Pie
Gumdrop
All the Colors of the Rainbow.
They Symbol of Gays
Which are not Albanian
But are the Children of the Highest God
Who Enjoys the Presence of Gay People
And Dragons
Who are not Racist
Why is there Racism?
Because of Albanians
And Albi
And Dragons
And Badly Burnt Albanian Boys
Tough Stuff

poem by Gerald Flippinhanger
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The most important thing is that Milosevic agreed to sit at the negotiating table with the Kosovo Albanians.

quote by Boris Yeltsin
Added by Lucian Velea
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I don't know nothing about communism. But I know the Albanians loved me. Same reason as anyone else loves me. Because I made them laugh.

quote by Norman Wisdom
Added by Lucian Velea
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Albania has to demonstrate that it is willing to be a reliable partner in the international community.

quote by Emma Bonino
Added by Lucian Velea
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Balkan Nightmares

The ghosts of history haunt the Balkans.
Ancient passions, unbending hatreds
turmoil the region.
Painful tragedies of the past
are recycled by memories.
Permanent hostage of bound
and determined remembrance,
Race, religion and poverty clash
in violent convulsions.

Ethnic warfare and ruthless fright
sweep across nations,
fuelled by explosions of grief, revenge
and fear.
They are immersed in horror,
terror, chaos and bloodshed,
the sufferings of children,
the sorrows of fathers,
and the agonies of widows.

[...] Read more

poem by Paul Hartal
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I support the recommendations made by the International Crisis Group. The primary responsibility is for Kosovo Albanians to demonstrate that their treatment of minorities is adequate.

quote by Emma Bonino
Added by Lucian Velea
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I believe that the capital of the Republic of Albania is a suitable venue for discussing the dialogue among religions and civilizations, notably in the countries of South East Europe, because we are well familiar with this country's track record of religious tolerance.

quote by Georgi Purvanov
Added by Lucian Velea
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Eleth

Give him the reward that he has earned and,
Let me go on my way;
And like my lover in Albania who dwells alone,
For the High Society is full of nakedness!

Call in Eleth and let me lead you on,
And light up your eyes and look upon my fields!
For they are already white for harvest,
And the reward is given in line with what you've earned.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Waiting From You For Just A Kiss

I cannot satiate you with a few word specks
But you cannot come in freely with big words…
You know I can't move as crooked only for your sake
It seems that I wound hardly my fragile soul
And if I look so downwards, I fear that I'll glide
If I would release your hand, I fear that of miss you, right?
Oh, I would like to see the blue in each other's eye
Even if the night had to go without touching your breast sky
However, It's of spirits work, and it's not so easy like this…
And like an Albanian, I only sing and never cry…
Waiting from you for just a kiss…

poem by Vasil Marku
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Radio Waves

From the transmitter, to the receiver.
Across the ether, out of your speaker.
Chorus:
Radio waves have life! radio waves have life!
Machines are living too, theyre working for me and you!
From the transmitter, to the receiver.
Across the ether, out of your speaker.
To the baltic fleet and atlantic fleet.
Faster than the breeze over stormy seas.
Repeat chorus (2)
Through america to albania.
Over reagans head, under moscows bed.
To the warsaw pact and the nato pact.
Down this cul de sac, never turning back.
Repeat chorus

song performed by Omd
Added by Lucian Velea
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News From Hank

Have recieved disturbing letter
From Hank
As follows:

Dear All
Misfortune has struck
Terrible blow

Fell asleep on container lorry
I am in Hamburg
German spiders not friendly to Brits
I fear racism is rife here
Have tried to blend in
But it’s hard to march with eight legs

Met a Frenchy in the Reeperbahn
Helps out in a transvestite bar
Only safe place he said
Whore’s and spiders
They don’t care

[...] Read more

poem by Nicolette Turner
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Mother Teresa

A flower from Albania,
Had made its home in India,
And blossomed into beauteous form,
Despite the world’s, many a storm.
It grew in wisdom, divinity,
Perfuming Kolkata city;
And served the poor, both young and old,
Mitigating sufferings untold.
She went into the town’s small streets,
And covered invalids with sheets;
She brought back smiles to faces sad,
And made the orphaned hearts so glad.
A single soul, rescued more souls,
By playing caring, saving roles;
She lit the dark alleys of town,
And grew the seeds of love thus sown.
The flower left its many seeds,
To grow up tall, amidst some weeds;
Each plant stays blessed by Almighty,
-A boon for poor in a city.

[...] Read more

poem by John Celes
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Saint Mother Teresa

A flower from Albania,
Had made its home in India,
And blossomed into beauteous form,
Despite the world’s, many a storm.
It grew in wisdom, divinity,
Perfuming Kolkata city;
And served the poor, both young and old,
Mitigating sufferings untold.
She went into the town’s small streets,
And covered invalids with sheets;
She brought back smiles to faces sad,
And made the orphaned hearts so glad.
A single soul, rescued more souls,
By playing caring, saving roles;
She lit the dark alleys of town,
And grew the seeds of love thus sown.
The flower left its many seeds,
To grow up tall, amidst some weeds;
Each plant stays blessed by Almighty,
-A boon for poor in a city.

[...] Read more

poem by John Celes
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Marriage On A Sunday

the man is albanian
we think he is British, bloody british they'd say.
at six feet five, his built is horrendous,
if horrible means the same as that,
broad shoulders, pluffy, peachy cheeks
glowing in Philippine summer. He is the groom.

the woman is a Filipina, chinky, brownish,
short, petite, too small for his huge kind of
affection, they call it love. she is a mere five feet
long black hair, small arms,
frail, she is beautiful and too innocent
for this kind of an important affair. Marriage.

Her chatmate finally now her groom.
Her saviour from poverty, and family honour.

It is none of my business really. But i have
doubts on this discrepancy.
Love, is this love? Can love bloom

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Roses for Rosanne

Dust in the winds
Shadows walking leaving trails
Eyes cocking navigate scents meddle the streets
Nightingale scans the sounds of thousands voices
Breaking the night camaraderie
Little birds of Hudson Bay
Whistling the songs of Hoboken array
Holland tunnel a lifeline… splendid to many
Manhattan Upper embraces Manhattan Lower
Epic proportion in sync with memories
Jersey carats of gold got you in me
The Albanian smiths….
Once said “crafted out of crisp”
I kept your smiles at Camden Waterfront
Let it flow like Delaware River……entwined
Your touch as lush as Pinelands
Casting me away to Atlantic blue
Song from ‘The Boss’ reminds me of you
Jersey girl caught me red handed
Rosanne in my heart you stay naked

[...] Read more

poem by Sulaiman Mohd Yusof
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Russian travel program

Every now and then
there are Russians
travelling to foreign countries
standing in lines
at aeroplanes and vehicles
to on government command
take a return trip without cost:

In 1932 it was right through Siberia
into Mongolia
with excursions through the country side
to look at the wall of China.

In 1939 together with some German friends
they visited Poland
and the old town square in Warsaw,
looked at the armour
of the Teutonic knight Sigsmund II
and the cathedral of St. John.

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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To Miss Ten Eyck II

Dear Kitty, while you rove thro' sylvan bow'rs,
Inhaling fragrance from salubrious flow'rs,
Or view your blushes mant'ling in the stream,
When Luna gilds it with her amber beam;
The brazen voice of war awakes our fears,
Impearling every damask cheek with tears.

The savage, rushing down the echoing vales,
Frights the poor hind with ill portending yells;
A livid white his consort's cheeks invest;
She drops her blooming infant from her breast;
She tries to fly, but quick recoiling fees
The painted Indian issuing from the trees;
Then life suspensive sinks her on the plain,
Till dire explosions wake her up again.
Oh horrid sight! her partner is no more;
Pale is his corse, or only ting'd with gore;

Her playful babe is dash'd against the stones,
Its scalp torn off, and fractur'd all its bones.

[...] Read more

poem by Ann Eliza Bleecker from The Posthumous Works of Ann Eliza Bleecker
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Tales Of A Wayside Inn : Part 3. Interlude VI.

'Now that is after my own heart,'
The Poet cried; 'one understands
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
And skilled in every warlike art,
Riding through his Albanian lands,
And following the auspicious star
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar.'

The Theologian added here
His word of praise not less sincere,
Although he ended with a jibe;
'The hero of romance and song
Was born,' he said, 'to right the wrong;
And I approve; but all the same
That bit of treason with the Scribe
Adds nothing to your hero's fame.'

The Student praised the good old times,
And liked the canter of the rhymes,

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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A book bazaar

I was in Manhattan in a book bazaar with lots of bargains, none interested me.
I kept my eyes wandering around not really knowing where to look,
At the strolling people or at the static street shelves books
It is just like being in a Zoo
Here too you do not know who
You may meet or see when passing thru
An anchor women from a famous channel
She looked so much prettier down the street
In a stealthy walk trying to hide her notoriety
I could not believe how they can do such a budged make up
In a channel with such fame fashion and prestige
In the screen she looked more like total disaster and fatigue

Through all the colors which the sun bestows
And among every character of form and face,
The Swede, the Russian mixed with Albanian
The Frenchman and the Spaniard from the remote south
The Indian; Moors, Malays and their neighbors
The Tartar and the Chinese, none would miss the event
All humans gathered around the scent

[...] Read more

poem by Isaac Ziv
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The Hero

'O for a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear;
My light glove on his casque of steel,
My love-knot on his spear!

'O for the white plume floating
Sad Zutphen's field above,
The lion heart in battle,
The woman's heart in love!

'O that man once more were manly,
Woman's pride, and not her scorn
That once more the pale young mother
Dared to boast `a man is born'!

'But, now life's slumberous current
No sun-bowed cascade wakes;
No tall, heroic manhood
The level dulness breaks.

[...] Read more

poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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