TE KRYQEZUARIT ZBRESIN GOLGOTES Poem by RUDOLF MARKU
TE KRYQEZUARIT ZBRESIN GOLGOTES
Te kryqezuarit zbresin Golgotes
Ne muzg vone.Pak plaçka
Te mbledhura ne nje traste.Kur ngjiteshin Golgotes
Te pakten e dinin ku shkonin.E tash
Nuk i njeh askush. Pandehen se ishin Krishti.
I merr malli per nje fishkellime,
A nje kurore gjembash.Jane te vetmuar
Tek zbresin Golgotes.Ç'te bejme, ç'te bejme,
Me jeten tone ? Pons Pilati tashme i ka lare duart,
Krishti eshte ngjitur ne lavdine e amshuar
Mateu ka filluar te shkruaje rrjeshtat e pare,
Maria po fshin lotin e fundin,
Dhe udhetimi i mbreterve Mag nuk perseritet me.
Ç'te bejme,ç'te bejme me jeten tone ?
Jane te vetmuar tek zbresin Golgotes,
Asnje aerport nuk i pret,asnje stacion treni,
Tek zbresin ne kete ore te muzgut te vone.
Dhe Herodi qe mund t'i njihte nuk eshte me,
Sundimtare me te fuqishem ja kane zene fronin.
Te pakten kur ngjiteshin Golgotes
E dinin se dikush do t'i fishkellente,
E dinin se dikush do t'u vinte kurore gjembash,
E dinin se drejt kryqezimit do te shkonin.
2. Christ arises in eternal glory, Matthew begins to write his first lines, Mary wipes away her last tears, And the journey of the Three Wise Men will never happen again. What shall we do? What shall we do with this life of ours? They are forlorn as they descend from Golgotha, No airport to welcome them, no railway station As they descend now in the fading twilight. And Herod, who might have known them, is no longer. More powerful rulers have ascended the throne.
3. At least when they mounted Golgotha They knew someone would jeer, They knew someone would place a crown of thorns on their heads, They knew they would be bound for crucifixion. [Të kryqëzuarit zbresin Golgotës, translated by Robert Elsie]
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7/23/2025 9:59:24 PM # 1.0.0
1. The Crucified Descend from Golgotha The crucified descend from Golgotha In the fading twilight. A few garments Gathered in a bag. When they mounted Golgotha, They knew at least where they were going. And now No one knows them. They thought they were Christ, They long for a jeer Or a crown of thorns. They are lonely As they descend from Golgotha. What shall we do? What shall we do With this life of ours? Pontius Pilatus washes his hands of them,