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Four poems of Rozafa Shpuza

09 April 2019
Author :  

Rozafa Shpuza was born in Shkodra, Albania. After completing High School, she enrolls at University of Literature and successfully graduates in 1990 with a degree in Languages and Literature. She works as a school teacher. Presently, she is editor of parliamentary publications at the Parliament of Albania in Tirana.

In 2011, she publishes her first book in prose entitled “Time of Icons”, followed by “Anipse”, a book with poetry in Geg dialect of Albanian language. In 2016, she publishes her latest literary work named “Grizhlat”.

She practices photography as one of her many hobbies. Rozafa participates in various photography contests in Albania and abroad. In 2015, she opens her first exhibition with photographs from her own collection in Shkodra and Durres.

Rozafa’s literary work and photographs can be found on her blog at



Soaring with seagulls


Soaring with seagulls

I linger’d on the verge

of a kiss

eyes afloat

a frosty, guileful


the beaming wait

lured me in

lusting me out

of canopy shades,

a cilium-light



On tremor’d edge

I held my breath,

as vibrant

quaking blues

snuggled me off

soaring with seagulls.



(Ode to) The old home


Our home had no keys

and days floated smoothly across one room, then the next


my grandmother’s sotto voce refrain

stroking her knots on a nylon thread, like impromptu prayer beads...

Frayed rugs resembled a blind predicament

of doom foretold,

and my whole voyage was a chess game

without winners.

The old home lingers no more

an epilogue of legends featuring dragons

and I feel the days reappear through keyholes

that were never used,

just like constant transitions in my camera zoom...



Back home


By the old house

my backyard awaits

wrapped in high walls,


in unseasoned ivy

snowed upon by hydrangeas

like doll brides shying away.

The shutters,

taut of dull rain,

spread their wings

grimy by gray winds.


grouchy of faded steps,

cradle weak frames

under the smooth weight

of long lost touch,

while broken dreams

throb across cracked walls,

in tearful longing...



Shell of the sea


Hidden in my pocket was a seashell

of which shore, I know not...

I found it as summer folded away

along with few clinging grains of sand

and three coins chiming like nymphs of lonely harbor...

The streaks on her back carved by salty mea culpas

snug in eternal embrace of a love mirage

set adrift for a hundred years across the seas.

I spread her crusty wings gently on my palm

and keep faith that the streaks of fate

will guide my destiny on a path made of dreams...


(translated by:bora shpuza)

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