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LAMTUMIRĖ
Po lė shtėpinė zemėrfanar
Vendlindje e farefis
Po vete nBengalin dergje-vrarė
Atje, nė tė largtin vis.
Lė tė njohurit nė mejtime
Tė afėrmit e vatrėn shqim,
Mė tėrheq zemra ime
Ti shėrbej Krishtit tim.
Nėnė e dashur, lamtumirė
Ju le shėnden miq tė mi
Mė djeg, o, njė fuqi e dlirė
Drejt tė pėrflakurės Indi
Dhe anija lehtė lehtė lundron
Pret valėt e detit tė trazuar,
Pėr herė tė fundit syri vrojton
Brigjet e Evropės sė hakėrruar.
Qėndron nė anije e galduar
Fytyrė e pėrvuajtur gjithė hare
E Krishtit flijetarja e vluar
Nuse e njomė e botės sė re,
Njė kryq hekuri ndorė shtėrngon
Shpėtimi lėvarshėm kumbon nė tė,
E shpirti i gatshėm pranon
Blatėn e rėndė fli pėr tė,
Pranoje, kėtė flijim, o Zot,
Dėshmi e pėrbetimit qė tė dashuroj,
Ndihmoi gjallesės Tėnde sot
Qė emrin do tė madhėroj!
Si shpėrblim, Tė lus o i Hirt,
O Ati ynė plot mirėsi
Tė mė japėsh vetėm atė shpirt
Atė shpirt qė-veēse Ti e di.
Dhe timtė, tė pastėr si nag vere vesojnė
Tė valėt lot rjedhin qetė, me mall,
Qė betimin pėr Ty prore e madhėrojnė
Pėr tė madhin blatim qė tani u shpall.
A Poem by Mother
Teresa - Gonxhe Bojaxhiu, composed Dec. 9, 1928, en route to India. |
GOODBYE
I am leaving the glowing hearth,
And my birthplace and kinsfolk;
To go to disease-wracked Bengal,
Far, far away.
I bid goodbye to fretful friends,
From hearth and relatives I turn away,
To obey my heart that tells me
To serve Christ.
Goodbye, dear mother,
Take care friends of mine;
A pure force stirs within me
And drives me toward inflamed India.
The boat sails ever so lightly,
As it awaits stormy scars;
For the last time, my eye surveys
The coastline of wrathful Europe.
On the boat, joy and exultation
Light up the face care-worn
Of a soul betrothed to Christ-
The tender bride of the new world.
An iron cross she clasps in her hand,
A cross that rings with the message of salvation;
And her spirit is ready
To sacrifice all for it.
Accept, oh, Lord, this sacrifice,
as a testimony of my love;
and on this day help my soul
that wants to exult Your name.
In return, oh, Gracious Lord,
Our kind Father,
I ask only that I be filled with the spirit
Known only to You.
Pure as a summer drizzle at dawn,
My hot, wistful tears roll softly down,
And uplift my public oath
To make my life a ceaseless prayer to You.
Translated from Albanian by Peter R. Prifti,
San Diego 1991
ALBANIAN CATHOLIC BULLETIN, San Francisco, CA., Vol. XII, 1991 |
