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ISSN 1409-6900 | UDK 82+7     Blesok no. 23 | volume IV | October-November, 2001



                     Peer-reviewed journal
Blesok no. 23October-November, 2001


p. 1
Kim Mehmeti

    My dear, I told her, a bitter wound eats at my body. I lifted my shirt so that she could see the black spot on my chest that spread unchecked through my whole body. Instead of reaching out her hands and soothing my wound with caresses, she moistened it with saliva from a swallow and stubbornly claimed that her bites turned into a wound, and that they would eat me entirely, they would annihilate me. My dear, I coaxed her, reaching my hands out to her, do not build prisons everywhere and enclose yourself in them. Allow me to join with beauty, to gaze upon these endless wide spaces. Her eyes didn’t blink, and she had no place for mercy: she wanted to see me impaled on the claws of desire. Most of all she wanted me to fawn upon her, to hand her my soul in her palm. And then she would lock me up again, leaving me waiting for the dawn, crying. She left for who knows where, I couldn’t even hear her voice for days, I couldn’t see her shadow. She returned unannounced, as a usurer who knows that he had invested his wealth in a safe place and has come to collect his interest. And so it was. I longed for her to return as soon as possible, I rejoiced with pain when her silhouette appeared in the distance, and between her and the sun, it is hard to say who has the greater beauty – either when it sets or when it rises. “I came!” she said proudly. She unlocked the door of the cell in which she kept me imprisoned, and she let me caress her until I was satiated. As I devoured beauty and remained hungry forever, she would bite my chest, she ate whole pieces of flesh with her mouth, laughing triumphantly. I screamed, not with pain but with too much passion. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked me, but I said nothing in reply. I didn’t want to destroy passion with the emptiness of words.
    My dear, I asked her, why do you keep me in prison, why do you impose slavery out of pride? Allow me at least to heal my wounds, to search for a medicine so my body does not rot, so my soul does not to break to pieces above the hot desert sand. She kept quiet. She either

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