[unknown title]

In my pockets sleep

unsent letters
I feel under my skin verses that whisper
envelopes that tremble
philately that loved ones will not be able to
pluck from my flesh
they are letters that I perhaps wrote
but sent to myself
in far-away addresses
as though I want to explain myself
with others' reasons
for my shortcomings
under my skin sleep
letters
a whole bunch of them
letters that will perhaps be sent
in fact, that have been sent, but to me
who, like a stolen mailbox,
accumulate for myself a certain warmth, good words
that I myself wrote about others better
than anybody could write to me.

Ervin HATIBI

(Origjinali shqip)