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All Rights Reserved
 Publisher online and owner: 

Sabahudin Hadžialić, MSc 

Sarajevo & Bugojno, 
               Bosnia and Herzegovina        
        

MI OBJEDINJUJEMO RAZLIČITOSTI...
WE ARE UNIFYING DIVERSITIES
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Patrick Sammut, Mosta, Malta

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Patrick Sammut was born in Malta in 1968. He studied Maltese and Italian language and literature, and History, at the University of Malta, and later obtained a Masters Degree in Contemporary Italian Literature with a thesis on “The Novel of the Resistance Movement”. Between 1994 and 1996 he studied Italian literature and literary criticism at the Università degli Studi of Florence. He teaches Maltese and Italian Language and Literature at De La Salle College since 1992. He is vice-president of the Maltese Poets Association, editor of the poetry magazine VERSI, and coordinator of a literary page of a local and virtual weekly newspaper, Il-Gens illum. He writes poetry in Maltese, English and Italian. He is author of various publications: literary criticism, poetry and short stories for children. His poems were published in both local and foreign journals and magazines. In 2008 he participated in the “Progetto Dante” of Ravenna, together with Maltese poet and translator, Alfred Palma, and won a “Special Mention” in the Nosside international poetry contest. In 2011 he participated in the Gaeta Mediterranean Poetry Festival. He keeps in contact with other poets and writers through e-mail and has a personal blog: www.patrickjsammut.blogspot.com . He is married to Rosalie and father of Andrew, Kristina and Matthew.



VILLA AMIRA, Street Ante Starčevića 33, 
Orebić, Croatia
http://villaamira.weebly.com/

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Bosnia and Herzegovina
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                              ODGOVORI...I PITANJA

Njegovi snovi jesu neprestano traženje.  Odgovora. U pjesmi. Radi života samog. Njegova realnost je pronalazak suštine. U pitanju. Života. Pjesmom obuhvaćenog. Bogatstvo jezičkog smislenog izražaja se kod Patricka Sammuta manifestira u jakosti mozaičke scene, izrasle iz njegovog bića. Bića koje voli, tuguju, ali i nada se. Objašnjenju svega navedenog. Pričajući pjesmu. Govoreći poeziju. Snagom naslijeđa majčinog, ali izgrađenosti sopstvenog bića. Društvenog. 


No, ne daje finalne odgovore. Quis scit (heu, nemo, nemo quidquam scit. Fragilis est scientia! (Dobrica Cesarić,  Hrvatska, XX stoljeće/Vijek)....da, Patrick, no tvoje poetsko znanje je predivan kolorit iskrenih namjera, usmjerenih nadnaravnoj potrebi da pokušamo dati odgovore na sva pitanja koja tvoja poezija postavlja. I odgovoricemo. Uz pomoc tvoje poezije, prije svega.

Riječ urednika
Sabahudin Hadžialić
                       QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS...

His dreams are constantly in seeking process. For the answers. In the song. For the purpose of life itself. His reality is the invention of the essence. Within the question. Of life. Covered with the poem. The richness of linguistic meaningful expression is manifested at Patrick Sammut  within the strength of a mosaic scene, grew out of his creature. Creature who love, mourn, but also the one who has hopes. Explanation of the above mentioned. Talking with the poem. Speaking of the poetry. Strength of the mother's legacy, but with the construction of his own being. Social one. No, he does not provide final answers. Quis scit (heu, nemo, nemo quidquam scit. Fragilis est scientia! (poet Dobrica Cesarić, Croatia, XX  century )....yes, Patrick, but  your knowledge of poetry is a beautiful color of the sincere intentions, directed towards the supernatural need for us to try to give answers to any questions that your poetry sets. And we will respond. With the help of your poetry, first and foremost.

Editor's word
Sabahudin Hadzialic

Forsi mill-ġdid

Ix-xita baqgħet tgelgel staġun wara l-ieħor bħall-baħar jofrogħ u jimla

u jibdel iċ-ċagħak f’ramel mikroskopiku

bħax-xemx tbaskat u tikwi fuq il-ħolqien.

Imma tiegħek ma baqax għelm ħlief it-tifkira

li ttektek ma’ ħġieġ għajnejja spiss

                                bla ma ddejjaqni

ddewwaqni l-melħ ta’ baħar li darba kien

                                               u llum nixef.

Illum

baqa’ biss it-tifkira li tħabbat bla waqfien

                  kull waqt, kull jum, kullimkien

                                      ma’ bwieb il-jien

u jien minn dak il-jum sirt nara u nifhem

dal-vjaġġ qasir li hu tiegħi ukoll

dal-vjaġġ qasir daqs nifs maqtugħ ġirja waħda

dal-vjaġġ li tiegħu biljett xtrajtli bla ma naf

                                                 bla ma ridt

dal-vjaġġ li se jwassalni fejn ma nafx

                     jew forsi ħdejk mill-ġdid

                       forsi twelidek mill-ġdid

                          forsi twelidi mill-ġdid

                                       forsi tassew

dal-ħolma-vjaġġ qarrieq li jferrħek u jbikkik

                                         isaħħek u jherrik

                                        ifakkrek u jnessik

l-ilwien

li xi darba fil-bogħod fil-qrib

f’iswed ikanġu f’baħħ etern

                                          forsi

                                          forsi xi darba noħroġ imqarraq

jew

għad ikolli raġun

bla ma nkun qatt nista’ nieħdu

                                          forsi...


---------------------

Tifkira t’Assisi


Imkeffen f’dan id-dieq

ħarsti fakkarija timraħ fuq wesgħat il-widien

tintilef lilhinn u titwaħħad

mal-ikħal profond tal-iġbla fl-isfond.

Hemmhekk biss inħossni jien,

ħieles bħan-nida li tostor il-għodwa

bħall-għanja li ssaħħar tat-tjur sielma

bħaż-żiffa sefsiefa li tpaxxi lill-widen

bħall-ibgħad u l-ogħla quċċata.

Niffissa l-ftuħ etern

u nisma’ leħen ġewwieni jlissen dal-kliem:

ibqa’ hawn, titħarrikx, agħlaq għajnejk

twarrab mill-għagħa u ħaddan il-kwiet.

Ħoss, xomm, tiegħem u isma’ l-ħolqien

f’taħdita mas-skiet.


-----------------


TALBA 

Bilqiegħda hawn fuq

biswit l-iskrivanija

nitbissem kuntent għax naf

li int hemm fuq

barra mit-tieqa ma’ ġenbi

ġejt iżżurni għal ftit ġimgħat

int li tterraq l-univers infinit.

Kull tant  żmien indawwar ħarsti lejk

biex niżgura li int għadek hemm

tiddi b’denbek fiddien

fi sfond iswed dlam.

Iżda waqtiet oħra

nintlaqat mid-diqa

għax naf li postok hemm fuq

mhux dejjiem.

Naf li bil-mod il-mod

tgħib, tmut, u dawlek

jisfa’ fix-xejn.

Hekk ukoll dawk ta’ madwari

li tant ħabbewni u li tant

ħabbejt u nħobb.

Nixtieq nibqa’ niċċassa lejk

l-iljieli kollha

bla ma nagħlaq għajn. . .

Ingawdi issa l-preżenza tiegħek

ja kometa

għax naf li

ladarba tgħib

int ma terġa’ lura

qatt.


------------------------

Karnival solitarju


F’dal-karnival kiesaħ

ninża’ għarwien u nħalli

l-kesħa tal-art taħkimni,

immur lura fil-għar

li fih xi darba fl-iljieli mbiegħda

kont bniedem tassew.

Naħrab mill-belt

u nimxi ħafi fuq il-blat niggieżi

nixrob l-ilma ġieri

u nħalli għelm passejja

fit-tajn frisk.

F’dal-karnival kiesaħ

nagħlaq għajnejja u nsodd widnejja

u fid-dalma  nilmaħ ilwien ħarkiena

u nisma’ n-noti primordjali

’il bogħod minn dawn

jiemi u mkieni banali.

Nerġa’ ntiegħem il-laħam nej

tal-bhejjem slavaġ

waqt li nimraħ lejn beraħ

ix-xagħri, l-iġbla u l-widien,

hekk, weqfin quddiemi dejjiema

u nberred dat-turmenti ġewwiena

biex fl-aħħar nitbissem tbissima ta’ vera

u nħossni ninħakem

minn tal-ħuġġieġa s-sħana

’il bogħod minn dis-siegħa baħnana...

--------------------------

Milied sieket...

 
Kien hemm jiem meta n-noti tal-pjanu

kienu jinfirxu mal-erbat irjieħ

u jdakkru bil-hena lis-semmiegħ,

jisiltu tbissima u jġorru

messaġġi ta’ sliem...

Kien hemm jiem meta l-moħħ u l-id

kienu jistrieħu mill-ġirja-tellieqa

                                       ta’ kuljum

jitbiegħdu għal waqtiet minn dak li jifnik

inessu tal-arloġġ it-tektik

u n-noti tal-pjanu jtellgħu fil-għoli

lill-eletti li jafu bis-sabiħ jitpaxxew...

Kien hemm jiem meta l-moħħ

                      kien għadu ħieles

u l-mużika sublimi kienet toffri mistrieħ

bin-noti tal-pjanu ħawwiefa

iwennsu l-ispazji

tfal ċkejkna henjin jiġġerrew...

Kien hemm jiem meta l-ġenju

          tal-kbar kompożituri

kien jitqajjem mir-raqda mill-ġdid

u l-folla titpaxxa għal qosra waqtiet

tissaffa mill-aljenazzjoni

u ssegwi n-noti tal-pjanu b’passjoni...

Illum minn dan kollu ma fadal xejn.

Għal-leħen imsaħħar tal-pjanu

       jixxennqu l-widnejn

u bosta jistaqsu x’seħħ minnhom?

                                 għalfejn?

Illum fadal biss Milied sieket

u s-sema ddallam, insterqu l-kwiekeb,

u n-noti tal-pjanu sfaw orfni mbikkma

u ħallew lil bosta jixxennqu qatigħ

dak li xi darba, ftit ilu,

kien ipaxxi lill-qlub u jiżra’ l-mistrieħ.

-----------------------

Jien u miexi fi triqti...

 
Jien u miexi fi triqti

hawn fl-ispazji tiegħi li nafhom sewwa

ħsiebi fik li tterraq it-triqat tiegħek

’il bogħod minn hawn

fl-ispazji siekta li inti taf żgur aħjar minni.

Xi drabi nistħajjel ġewwa ħsiebi

leħnek itarrafli kliem ħlejju minn taħt l-ilsien

kliem li nifhem jiena biss

u spiss

bi tweġiba bla ebda sforz

naqbadni nlissen kliem ħafif tajjar

lilek, int fejn int,

fil-bogħod imma hekk fil-qrib ukoll.

Narani ħarsti fuqek, inviżibbli,

waqt li waħdek tniżżel boqqa boqqa l-kafè

li għamilt inti stess

jew tinżel taqfel il-lazz

jew tħares tal-aħħar fil-mera biex tara

li kollox sew

u hemm ġew

nilmaħ bħal diqa f’għajnejk żagħżugħa

’mma mġarrba

daqs is-swar li min jaf kemm raw matul is-snin.

L-arloġġ itektek għalina t-tnejn

minkejja d-distanza li żżommna mifrudin

’mma ħsiebna ħaġa waħda

f’dimensjoni li nafu biha inti u jiena biss...

Inħarsu ’l quddiem bit-tama li jonfħu rjieħ aħjar

biex fuqhom nittajru ħfief lejn spazji-żminijiet tajjar

nistaqsi xi jmiss

b’ħarsitna lejn l-orizzont

lilhinn minn kull bini, asfalt, konkrit

sakemm naslu fuq il-pont li għal darb’oħra

jarana flimkien, ġejjieni unit.

-----------------------------

TIFKIRA TA’ OMM 


Tard filgħaxija meta jisktu l-ħsejjes

             u tistrieħ il-ħajja għaġġelija

nagħlaq għajnejja għal xi waqtiet

u nħossni ninqata’ mill-art

intir ħafif ’il fuq ’il fuq

u nerġa’ nistħajlek tiftaħli l-bieb ta’ tfuliti

                                              mill-ġdid

tilqagħni b’dirgħajk miftuħa u bi tbissima li

                      sserraħ minn kull inkwiet

tmexxini sal-qalba tad-dar...

u għalkemm naf li dan seħħ bosta snin ilu

u li inti issa ’l bogħod xhur u xhur twal

inħossni għal darb’oħra qribek

u nibki bil-ferħ, biki liberatorju,

inħoss f’dis-siegħa solitarja d-dmugħ

jiżżerżaq ma’ sisien ħaddejja

u leħen minn ġewwa jitolbok

biex tibqa’ dejjem ħdejja

fid-dawl u fid-dlam, fis-sħana u fil-ksieħ,

int li kont, għadek u tibqa’

OMMI, għażiża ommi.

Inħobbok, inħobbok daqs il-vojt

ħondoq bla qiegħ

ta’ ġo fija u li minnek firidni u seraqli

kull mistrieħ.

----------------------

Hemm żminijiet...

Hemm żminijiet meta bla ma rridu

madwarna taħkem in-nixfa

anki jekk fina jnixxu u jgelglu l-ilmjiet

u dan ikiddna mhux ftit

iħallina ljieli mqajmin nomogħdu d-dlamijiet

li jidħlu jimbuttaw fil-labirinti ta’ moħħna.

U f’waqtiet bħal dawn ninqatgħu mill-kiefra realtà

biex fi ħsiebna nsalpaw fuq ibħrat l-istħajjil.

Ara jiena...

ta’ spiss nimmaġinani ngħum

għarwien u xxamplat

fl-ikħal t’għajnejk, immelles kullimkien

                                                 minn subgħajk torja.

U kieku int kont il-ħamrija

jiena kont inkun għeruq is-siġra

nikber, nimbotta u nħabbat ġewwa fik

                                                       staġuni sħaħ

nitimgħek ħalibi u inti ttuqni għasel l-allat...

Imbagħad niftakru li r-realtà fil-fatt

ftit għandha minn dawn il-ħrejjef

u rridu u ma rridux, ikollna nġorru

                                               l-piż assenjat lilna.

Biss ftakar

hemm realtajiet virtwali, paralleli,

fejn int u jien ilna sa mill-bidu nett

u nibqgħu hekk sa dwiem l-eternità

għoqda waħda marbutin flimkien.

-----------------------------

Forsi xi darba...

Id-dinja żżomm fuq ħjut irqaq

                                               inviżibbli

u ddur u ma tiqafx

għax hemm tfal ċkejknin li ta’ kuljum

joħolmu ħolm l-anġli

jitbissmu b’għajnejhom magħluqin

u minn fommhom qrolla

joħorġu klejmiet ta’ paċi

li jifhmu biss il-ftit

u drabi l-istess tfal ċkejknin

tarahom jitqallbu u jitkagħwġu

ibatu għal waqtiet

jitqabdu mal-forzi tal-ħażen

waqt l–iljieli twal, fis-skiet.

Id-dinja żżomm fuq ħjut irqaq

                                     inviżibbli

u ddur u ma tiqafx

għax hemm xjuħ ħbieb is-solitudni

maqfula fi kmajret talbhom

’il bogħod mill-moltitudni

li jqasstu mijiet u mijiet ta’ rużarji

jgħarrqu għajnejhom fuq brevjarji

li llum tgħallmu bl-amment

u jgedwdu bla ma jieqfu

orazzjonijiet u ġakulatorji

hemmhekk fis-skiet li drawh

daqs l-akbar ħabib

u jbatu bla ma nafu mitt elf uġigħ

li ebda duwa ma taf isserraħ.

U intant il-bqija medhija bil-ħan u l-ġlied

bħal xjafek bla mistrieħ nintilfu

           fil-labirinti bliet

u drabi, uħud minna, nieqfu għal ftit mumenti

niftakru f’meta konna kuntenti

f’imgħoddi li llum insejna għax infnejna

             b’elf tagħbija u nkwiet.

Fejn marret l-innoċenza ta’ meta konna trabi?

Fejn huma ż-żminijiet meta t-talb tagħna kien ħabib?

Qed negħrqu sewwa fil-ħama bla ma nafu

biex forsi, xi darba, inqumu fuq riġlejna,

u nindafu minn dan kollu

mill-ġdid!



---------------------------

Manhattan - 11 ta’ Settembru 2001

It-toroq imdemmija

u sħaba sewda tostor il-qirda u l-mejtin.

Jibku s-sireni

u l-folla bejn miblugħa

bejn imherwla ma tafx fejn se ssib il-kenn.

Sa ftit ilu qalb il-belt kienet qed tħabbat

u t-toroq ifawru bħal dejjem

bin-nies u l-karrozzi. . .

I\d’issa f’tebqa t’għajn

iġġarfet il-ħolma u minflok

il-ħmar il-lejl

(li laqat darba, darbtejn, tlieta)

ta’ bini mġarraf u t-tmiem ta’ eluf.

Is-sod safa fix-xejn

u maħsuda minn għeruqha l-belt li qatt ma torqod

tistenna muġugħa, midruba. . .

Issa t-toroq de\ert ta’ skiet mutrabi.

Għalissa x’nistgħu nagħmlu?

Nitolbu għal dawk li m’għadhomx magħna

nistabru bid-diskorsi preparati tal-mexxejja.




Picture

Picture

Picture
Perhaps Once Again

(translated from Maltese by Joseph Sant)

Incessant rain poured down throughout the rolling seasons

like the endless ebb and tide

that pulverise the pebbles to microscopic sand

or the relentless scorching sun that parches all creation.

Yet what remains of you is but a flickering memory

that often strikes against my glossy eyes

with imperceptible sadness.

You made me taste the salty sea that once existed

but which has since dried up

to its last drop demisted.

To-day

merely your memory survives knocking persistently –

each moment, each day, wherever –

against the portals of my very being:

and from that ominous day it clearly dawned upon me

that this short part-time passage, in which also I partake,

this fleeting period is but a breathless spasm

after an exhausting race.

You booked for me this voyage

without my will and knowledge

leading to a doubtful destination

or to your bosom it leads me back again

or perhaps to your rebirth...

to my rebirth...

indeed, perhaps.

This deceitful nightmarish voyage that offers –

joys and tears

strength and frailty

memories and amnesia –

hues

that in the long or short duration

will melt into the eternal pot of darkness and oblivion

perhaps, who knows

may be, one day will prove me wrong

or else, perhaps, I am proved right

and yet unable to savour satisfaction.

-------------------


Recollections of Assisi
(translated from Maltese by Joseph Sant)

Confined in this claustrophobic cubicle

my mind’s eye wanders over the immense valley plains

and, lost in the horizon, unites itself

with the dark blue hue of the mountain range beyond.

Only there my whole being feels as free

as the mist that clothes the dawn;

as the enchanting bird song that hails the morn;

as the whistling breeze that soothes the ear

or as the farthest topmost peak.

Firmly I gaze towards the eternal void

and listen to the voice within:

abide here longer, motionless, world-blind

turn your back to the hectic turmoil of daily life

and embrace the sound of silence...

Feel, smell, taste and listen to natural creation

softly engaging in mute dialogue with silent stillness.

---------------

REFLECTIONS

(Translated from Maltese by Joseph Sant)

An inward joy pervades me

While silently I sit in my study

Smiling to myself.

And, like a heart in love,

Your greetings I feel in the heavens above

Whence you came exhibiting your presence

On your long and scheduled flight

Along the infinite paths of the universe immense.

At times a glance sky-bound again

Assuring myself you there remain

Trailing your shining silvery tail

Against an unfathomable dark curtain.

At times your brilliance I rediscover

With heartfelt sadness

With deep awareness....

Your presence here, alas, is not for ever.

Slowly but surely you disappear

Your flame disintegrates

And dies in tears

As will all those who love me now

To whom my heart I owe somehow

Gladly I stay awake all night

Admiring your beauty and your light

Relishing your present glow....

My lovely comet.

Full well I know once you recede and vanish

No hope remains for me to see you back and cherish.

---------------------------

A SOLITARY CARNIVAL

(Translated from the Maltese original by poet and translator Alfred Palma)

On this cold carnival

I shed my clothes and let

cold ground possess me,

and go back to the cavern

where once in nights of yore

I was a man indeed.

I flee the town

and barefoot tread the prickly rocks

drink of the running brook

and leave the imprint of my steps

in the fresh mud.



On this cold carnival

I close my eyes and plug my ears

and in the dark behold the moving hues

and hear the notes primordial

farther from these mine days,

from this mine place so banal.



I’ll taste once more raw flesh

of the wild beasts

roam to the open plains,

mountains and vales, before me

standing eternal,

and soothe these inner torments

so I could smile at last,

without the slightest need of affectation.



------------------------

A SILENT CHRISTMAS…

(Traduzzjoni mill-Malti ta’ Milied sieket..., minn Alfred Palma)
 

There were days when the strains of the piano

dispersed to the four winds,

instilling joy in those who heard,

evoked a smile and bore forthwith

messages of peace…

There were days when  mind and hand

rested awhile from  the long-running race

of every day,

bouts of detachment from the hectic sway,

that draws attention from the ticking clock,

and piano strains raise to a higher plane,

effects that  in things beautiful obtain.

There were days when the mind was still free,

and sublime music was a means to rest,

the piano notes wafting away,

befriending open spaces,

like little children running about

in play…

There were days when the art of great composers

was reawakened from its profound sleep,

and yet the crowds delighted for a time,

cleansing itself anew, from alienation,

follow the piano strains with rapt elation.

Today all this is gone, none of it left.

Ears still yearn to hear the piano’s

bewitching voice, and many ask anon,

wonder about it, wherefore, and yet why?

All that is left today’s a silent Christmas:

the sky’s grown dark, the stars pilfered away,

the piano notes are much like dumbstruck orphans,

who have left many yearning all along

for what, till just some time ago,

was sheer delight to each and every heart,

and brought along serenity of mind!

------------------------


AS I WALK ON MY WAY

(Translaton from Maltese by Alfred Palma)

As I walk on my way

here in the spaces I know so well,

I think of you as you go your own way,

so far from here,

in the silent spaces you know better than me.

At times I seem to hear inside my mind

your voice a-murmuring sweet  words,

words that only I can understand,

and oft,

in an effortless reply

I find myself a-muttering soft words

to you, wherever you may be,

so far and yet so near too,

I see myself all eyes on you,

unseen,

as you sit all alone and sip the coffee

you brewed yourself,

or bend to tie your laces,

or give one final glance into your mirror

to see that all is well,

and I therein

I notice all the pain that haunts your eyes,

so young and yet world-weary

as walls besieged by time.

The clock ticks on for both of us,

in spite of all the distance that us parts;

yet our thought is one,

in a dimension only we do know…

we look ahead and hope for better winds

on which we could alight to spatial times

anon…

I ask myself what’s next,

as we scan the horizon,

away from urban towns,

asphalt, concrete,

until we reach the bridge which once again

will see us both together,

one future for us both!


---------------------------

REMEMBERING MOTHER

(Translated in English by Alfred Palma)

 
Late evening when all noise is still and silent

and hectic life seeks out its own repose

I close my eyes for a few moments

and feel myself a-rising from the ground

and fleetingly go up and further upwards,

and see you once again upon the doorstep

of my own childhood days,

and once again you greet me on

with open arms and that endearing smile

that eases all unrest, and guide me on

right to the very heart of what was home…

and though I know this has been years behind me,

and you have been away for months on end,

once more I feel you here and I am  near you

and weep with joy, hot liberating tears,

and feel in this lone hour more teardrops falling

sliding in silence down my pallid cheeks,

an inner voice inside me soars and begs you

to stay forever here, forever near,

in light of day, in dark of night,

in warmth or coldish times,

you, who just were, still are, and will forever be

my own, my mother dear,

you whom I love, as much as the void chasm,

nay one bottomless pit,

which has lain here, inside me,

has kept me far from you

and stole from me each vestige of repose.

----------------------

THERE ARE TIMES…
(Translated from the Maltese original by Alfred Palma)

There are times

when in spite of ourselves

a drought will reign supreme

around us,

though inner waters will gush on

inside us…

and this takes us to task,

keeps us awake at night

a-chewing on the darkness

that haunts the labyrinths of our minds.

And so we take a break from crude reality

to then embark on seas of fantasy.

As for myself…

I oft imagine I am swimming naked

fully at leisure in your eyes’ clear blue,

your tender fingers roaming on my body,

caressing through and through.

And if you were the earth

I’d be the tree’s root system,

I’d grow and push and beat inside of you

for seasons without end,

I’ll make you drink my milk and you will feed me

the honey of the gods…

we’ll then recall such fables are non extant

in our real life, whether we like it

or not, we still shall have to carry onwards

the load assigned to us.

Remember this, however:

there are virtual realities,

parallel ones at that,

where you and I have been

since the beginning,

and still will be unto eternity,

bound to each other in one single knot.


-------------------------

Maybe some day…(Translated from the Maltese original by Alfred Palma)

 
The world hangs on, on wispy threads

invisible to the eye,

rotates incessantly,

for there are children who, day after day,

dream oft angelic dreams,

smile on with sleep-closed eyes

and from their crimson lips

echo sweet words of peace,

which only few can understand;

and these same children can be seen at times

tossing and writhing in the crudest pain,

in intervals of woe

grappling with evil forces

during long nights, in silence all forlorn.

The world hangs on, on wispy threads,

invisible to the eye,

rotates incessantly,

for there are dear old people

friends of sheer solitude,

locked in the tiny confines of their prayers,

far from the multitudes,

reciting holy rosaries by the hundreds,

straining their eyes on prayer books,

which now they know by heart

and murmur on and on

a string of prayers long and short,

there in the silence they have grown

accustomed to as a great friend,

and suffer without knowing pain galore,

which no known medicine can otherwise appease.

And in the meantime

others engage in wickedness and wars,

like evil fiends we’re lost incessantly

in cities much akin to labyrinths,

and oft, a few of us, will stop for a respite

recalling when we knew true happiness,

in days gone by we now almost forgot,

exhausted as we are with troubled loads.

Where is the innocence of our childhood days?

Where are the days when prayer was our friend?

We’re well embroiled in mud unconsciously,

maybe, one day, we’ll rise back on our feet,

and cleanse ourselves of all this muck,

anew!


---------------------------


New York - 11th September 2001
(Translated into English by author himself)

The streets are bloody

black clouds conceal death and destruction

sirens crying in distress

the crowd half way between shocked and maddenned

not knowing where to seek shelter.

A while ago the city’s heart was beating

the streets flowing as always

with humankind and machines. . .

But now the dream has come to an end

abruptly replaced by a nightmare

(that struck once, twice, three times)

of ruined buildings and thousands dead.

Steel foundations melted into nothing

and, knocked down, the sleepless city

awaits wounded, in pain. . .

The streets unreal, a desert of silent sobs.

What can we do right now?

Pray for those who are no more

Console ourselves by presidential vows.

 



Patrick Sammut and Sabahudin Hadžialić (Gaeta, Italy, April 2011.)

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Yacht Med Festival - Il Mediterraneo in poesia - Il viaggio della parola - Gaeta, Italy 15/16.4.2011.

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Freelance gl. i odg. urednik od / Freelance Editor in chief as of 2009: Sabahudin Hadžialić

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