Ishte nje rruge ku vazhdimisht kaloje,
ti,e dashur,
ti,e bukur,
ti,ekstravagantja ime,
e te tjereve,ekstravagante,
e share,e poshteruar,e komplimentuar,
si historia e nje pikture te cmuar.

Dhe s’dije as vete perse
te iknin floket ne liri,
ndersa kembet te shkelnin ne morg
te dashurive kufomoide,
qe gjithsesi paten mani
t’i ekzaminonin gojet e qytetit.

Tani nuk je,
tani nuk ecen me ne rrugen qe nemitet,
as hapi yt,
as trupi yt i madh,
as goja jote me mpiksje
neverie dhe pakenaqesie.

Aty eshte rruga,aty,
dhe morgu yt i shperbere…
Kufomat e te dashurave te flakura
neper bordurat e plakura.
Tani andej kur kaloj
mungesen e madhe te orbites sate ndjej,
dhe jap pershendetje skematikisht
me ftohtesine e nje kartoni
te cilin e respektojne per ty.

Per ty,e dashur,
per ty,e share,
per ty,e poshteruar,
si historia e piktures
me te cmuar.

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