I long for evenings in the streets of Tirana,
Where I’ve done a mischief or two,And even in those streets where I have not.
They know me, those old wooden gates,
They will still hold their old grudges,
Shaking their head at me,
But I won’t mind
Because I’m filled with longing.
And in the sidestreets full of dried leaves,
Dried leaves, autumn leaves,
For which comparisons are aplenty.
In a poem by Ismail Kadare
