LAN QYQALLA-poetry

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo.

He has published 20 literary works: poems, stories, novels and drama. His poems and stories have been published in more than 215 magazines and portals around the world.

PRICES :

– In Bari, jun 2026 in Italy, he received the second PRIZE for short story in the International Competition „Farë nuk di Caini” from the Academy of Arts and Philosophical Sciences of the University of Bari.

– In the International Competition for poetry in Torre Meliso in Italy, he received the 1st Prize of Albanian, on May 2017

– In 2017, he received the CREATIVE AWARD OF THE YEAR in Fushë-Kosovo

– In 2018, the Association of Albanian Writers in Macedonia gives the AWARD OF THE YEAR „Under the shadow of the maple” to Skopje, for the best poetic book

– A poet has been selected to participate in the International Festival in Tunisia, on November 20-25, 2018

– He is the Director of the Association of Writers „Naim Frashëri” in Fushë-Kosovo,

– Member of the presidency of the ASSOCIATION OF WRITERS OF KOSOVO,

– Editor-in-Chief at „Orfeu” Magazine and Web ORFEU.AL

– Member of the Editorial Board of the Magazine of World Historians based in Switzerland

– Vice-President of the Union of Albanian Writers and Critics

– He works as a Professor of Albanian Language and Literature at the Gymnasium.

He lives and works in Pristina.

THE ALTAR OF THE PARISIAN POETS

I did not come here as a curious tourist,

but as a poet,

following the footprints of language

along the pavements where Apollinaire invented light

and turned poems into living shapes.

I read Éluard by candlelight,

watching love lay claim to the world,

and heard Rimbaud howl

through boulevards of solitude and awakening,

like a meteor tearing across the night.

Aragon leaned close and whispered:

„There is no such thing as happy love.”

Yet no poem has ever been more beautiful

than one that sings of love and Paris,

even when the city keeps its silence.

Where are they now?

In what labyrinth have their voices vanished?

Buried beneath the hush of Montmartre,

or still breathing

inside the verses

destined to outlive the centuries?

Paris looks at me

as though I were a stranger

I,

a poet wounded by Dardania,

carrying the soul of my language,

heavy as lead,

clear as tears,

to scatter across your dust-covered tables.

I did not come to see Paris.

I came

to breathe in the city

sleeping inside its own metaphors;

to weave this poem

into my own tongue,

in my own name

Lani

in the word that remembers the poets,

and in the breath of these streets,

where poetry

never dies.

In his light

I caught the shadow of a human being.

In his words,

the hunger for summits

where the air grows thin

and solitude becomes a language.

He spoke

of the will to power,

of becoming

more than oneself.

But every height

untouched by love

eventually hears

the fracture

inside its own echo.

Schopenhauer

placed the world’s weight

across his shoulders

pain as destiny,

silence

as shelter.

I cannot believe

life was made

simply to be endured.

It flares instead

a small defiant light

refusing the night,

a breath

lifting itself

from its own ashes.

You declared,

„God is dead.”

Perhaps you saw a sky

emptied of humanity,

not humanity

still searching for light.

You did not always see

the flowers

opening without witness,

the child laughing before learning

the name of philosophy,

the hand

reaching toward another

without expecting

anything in return.

Every doubt you carried

held a hidden spark.

Every refusal

concealed

a thirst

for meaning.

You dreamed

of the Übermensch.

I choose

the human being

the one who forgives,

who falls

and rises again,

who walks

with every wound still open

without letting go

of love’s hand.

Nietzsche,

perhaps your final message

was never

negation.

Perhaps

it was an unquenchable longing

for a light

capable of surviving

the darkness

within us.

©lanqyqalla

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