Tears of rose Stavri Pone
Lotët e trëndafilit Stavri Pone
I was released from prison on March 17, 1991, on Thursday, and at dinner
late I arrived in my town, at my house in the 1 May neighborhood, where
I was born, I had passed childhood, adolescence and the first year
of marriage. The rest of the time, until I was arrested, I had it
passed to the faculty and to the house of my aunt, Zoga, that I e
my sister Flora we called her egg.
I, libert1
of the 20th century, survivor of the iron broom of
communist purge, I came out of prison half crazy. Remove detention, all prison time, 10 years and 3 months, which was less than
half the time of my total sentence of 22 years together
the retribution, I had suffered in a camp deep in the mountains in the North.
As a convict I had to do another 12 years. Dad and uncle
had died when I was in prison.
I do not forget that night when I set foot in my hometown again
so many years. When I got off the bus, Flora and her husband were waiting for me,
Nardi Sofronin, and I wanted to go to jaja’s house, yes Flora me
said with tears in her eyes that she no longer existed, they had ruined her and in
in its place had built a kindergarten, so in vain to
I went. I almost screamed, it stabbed me in the heart, the bits of memories wounded me
for him and set out to go, I wanted to see if he might have stayed
something of it, a piece of fence, or acacia. Po acacia? I asked Flora
screaming and she looked at me with concern. Acacia? murmured.
What does acacia matter? It does not matter, I want to know: it is or they have it
cut. I do not know, she said uncertainly, it seems to me that it is.
I rejoiced and felt tears streaming down my cheeks to my chin
dense, which had begun to turn gray. At least the acacia has escaped,
I prayed to myself, the silent witness who was stuck deep in me
spirit, associated with something sacred, the outer side of which Flora
