N’cep te mehalles sime
vashat sypupurta qendisin pajen me ngjyra te blerta.
Pastaj,fshehurazi shohin permatan rruges
ndonje djale kembengules,
qe heret a vone do kaloje andej pari.
N’cep te mehalles sime
perbri
rrine grate,qe dashur pa dashur,kujtojne flirtet
dashurite,tradhetite.
N’cep te mehalles sime
mbi dy trungje arre
jane plakat e mocme
veshur me xibune te zinj prej leshi te trashe.
Heshturazi,pijne duhan te forte
e shohin nga qielli
mbase kthehen marinaret,
qe ato ti perqafojne aq fort,e ti zere gjumi.
N’cep te mehalles sime
dy vasha qendisin flamurin shqiptar
qe baca ismail qemali
te lumturohet kur ta valvis.
N’cep te mehalles sime
po bie muzgu
dhe hena aq prane
te ben te puthesh,te puthesh,te puthesh…
booo bo, nuk ka gjeni artist te beje nje mrekulli te tille! Kampion fare! Maje e art brut!
“Those works created from solitude and from pure and authentic creative impulses – where the worries of competition, acclaim and social promotion do not interfere – are, because of these very facts, more precious than the productions of professionals. After a certain familiarity with these flourishings of an exalted feverishness, lived so fully and so intensely by their authors, we cannot avoid the feeling that in relation to these works, cultural art in its entirety appears to be the game of a futile society, a fallacious parade.” — Jean Dubuffet.
