Krijimet letrare ~ Shtator-2024

Pershendetje te nderuar anetare!
Ja ku trokiti dhe vjeshta ,me krijimet e para vjeshtore per konkursin tone.

~Tema: bulzime vjeshtore plus teme e lire.





1-Vjeshtës i vura emrin tënd

Vjeshtës i vura emrin tënd
E lotët e mi me shiun bëra njësh.
Me zemër në dorë në të njejtin vend
Të prita dhe sot ti të më gjesh.

Sa vjeshta kaluan
Asfalte gjetherënash shtruar
Sa thinja u shtuan
Nga përqafime dashurish munguar.

Edhe kësaj vjeshte
I vura tëndin emër
Se ashtu si vjeshtën
edhe ty të mbaj në zemër



2-Pik’ shiu i nji syni

Nga nji pik’ shiu q'i lylzoi n’shpyrt
Lulzoi dhe jeta e venitun n’ranishte
Jeta pa ngjyra, vetëm bardhezi
U bo si nji buçet lulash, veç nga nji pik’ shi
Veç nji pik’ mëshire, shkaktoi reaksion-zinxhir
Zymtsia u ba drit’, e drita mugulli
Po kjo pik’ shiu, s’ishte si asnjitjetër
Ishte pik’ loti puth nxori afri e re
Afri puth kisha, e humbur, ma n’fund puth e gjeta
Me ktë pik’ shiu i dha jetë jetës .


3-Dua

Një botë plot ngjyra
Po,po ashtu ëndërroj
Të qeshura fytyra
që,lumturin të pasqyroj

Nuk e dua trishtimin
Ai më helmoj
Ma hoqi shkëlqimin
Edhe vetja më tradhtoj

E dua drejtësin
Por kjo botë e shtrembër duket
Oksigjen ka ligësin
Humanizmi po zhduket

E dua njerëzinë
Pa dallim feje apo etnie
E jetoj dashurinë
Me pafajsin e një fëmije

E dua të gjithë universin
Zemra gati të më plas
E di që kjo mirësi
Një ditë mua do më vras

Për pak dashuri
Të gjitha do i dhuroja
Atë dashuri që unë e fal
Veç një herë ta përjetoja


Ndoshta do të vijnë
Ditët që shumë gjatë i kam pritur
E ndjej që do vijnë
e do më gjejnë të kalitur


4-Meteor i pa shuar

Sa herë kaloja rrugicës tënde

Ma ngreje dorën e më buzëqeshje

Ashtu fillonte mëngjesi jonë

Tani trishtimi - ndarja mbeti në heshtje!



Nëse në vargun e këngës derdhet lot!

Si llavë malli derdhet në errësirë

Në vargje hyn acar i trishtë i vdekjes!

Ti Njomzë e njomë si meteor i shkëputur,

Papritmas ike na the lamtumirë!



Kaq shpejte na mori malli!

Duam ti shohim ata sy!

Fletoret, librat mbetën tek sirtari

Rrobat e reja i le në krevat shtrirë!



Ti bëheshe gati të rrugëtosh në jetë

Të bëhesh një mjeke ënderr kishe, Ti!

Numroje një nga një, ditët e pushimit

Dhe pak thoje do nis shkollën në mjekësi!



Në horizontin tonë është shpërnda malli!

Kujtojmë çastet, të kujtojmë në jetë

Ti e vogla e shpisë sugareshë e Nënës!

Një motër e vetme u shndrrove në përjetësi!




5-Një ditë me vjeshtën

Gjethe vallëzuese në një fllad të leht
Ngjyra të ngrohta, një përqafim të sinqert
Dielli fshihet, drita zbehet
Ngjyrë portokalli e dehur në qiell shpërthehet

Heshtur eci në një tapet gjethesh
Simfoni e këng ndër hapa ndjehet
Natyra përgatitet për gjumin e thellë
Në shpirt e zemer ngrohtësi përcjellë

Aromë gështenjash ndihet përreth
Ditët shkurtohen, i ftohti rrëqeth
Mbledhim frutët e artë nga toka
Si e ftuar e vjeshtës u rroka

Kështu kurorzojm këtë stinë të artë
Një cikël i pandalshëm, vallëzim i gjatë
Vjeshta ështe poezi, magji që mbështjell
Qetësi shpirti dhe në ditët pa diell.


Keto ishin rrjeshtat konkursit tone!
Duke ju falenderuar perzemersisht per dergimet tuaja,ju ftoj te lexoni dhe votoni te preferuarin tuaj.

Sa krijime te bukura
Te pakten në vatrën tonë erdhi vjeshta ndër vargje, sepse akoma natyra po na dhuron ditë pranvere.

Ju lumtë pena.
Do i lexoj me vëmendje pak më vonë e do vendos kë të votoj

Urime pjesemaresve.
Pune e bukur @NeVertiti

@NeVertiti moj nje votë kemi apo dy?

Spo di. Jam.mes 1shit dhe dyshit.. ta bej kujt i bie dhjeta

3 , 5

Me pëlqeu shum romanticiteti i krijimit 1
Por më goditi në zemer krijimi 4

My mind at midnight fury.


Albania, a land where history is carved in stone and blood, was not a place of half-measures. Here, when you took from someone, you didn’t just hurt them—you hurt generations. So when Iran dared to strike at Albania’s heart, it wasn’t just an act of terror; it was an invitation to something far darker, far more ancient. What followed was not retaliation, but a descent into hell itself, where revenge wasn’t just brutal—it was absolute.

The Albanian mafia didn’t rise from the shadows; they were the shadows, a living force of vengeance. They didn’t hunt for sport or money. They hunted because honor demanded it, and there was no greater sin than leaving that debt unpaid. Across the globe, from Tehran to the corners of cities drenched in luxury, the Iranian elite felt the ground shifting beneath their feet. Not from tremors, but from something far worse—the silent approach of Albanian justice. And this justice didn’t come with sirens or warning shots. It came in whispers and vanished lives, leaving nothing but a cold, gut-churning emptiness in its wake.

They left no bodies behind for the world to mourn, no corpses on display to fuel the news cycles. There were no heads on spikes, no parades of death. Instead, what the Albanian mafia left was absence—a terrifying, hollow void where once stood the powerful, the untouchable. Men with empires and riches, people whose names carried weight—gone, as if they never existed. The Iranian leadership wasn’t just being hunted—they were being erased. Stripped not just of life, but of existence itself.

The Iranians could run, but wherever they hid, the silence followed. In penthouses high above the city streets, in fortresses guarded by the most elite forces, it made no difference. One day, a man would be there—secure, powerful. The next, nothing but an empty space. No signs of struggle, no shattered glass or gunfire. Just... nothing. And that nothing was far worse than any blood-soaked street. It was a message: you don’t deserve to be remembered.

This was not war—it was a reckoning. The Albanian mafia didn’t need bullets to destroy; they used fear. Fear so thick, so palpable, it wrapped around the throats of their enemies like a noose. The silence became deafening. Diplomats, businessmen, and politicians lived in constant terror, but it wasn’t the fear of being caught—it was the fear of disappearing. Of being wiped from the earth without a trace, leaving no one to even light a candle in their memory.

The Iranians whispered to each other, unable to trust even their closest allies. Each day felt like another step toward the edge of a precipice they couldn’t see. They felt the mafia closing in—not in gunfire or explosions, but in the unnerving quiet. And every night, they went to bed not knowing if they'd wake to a new day or simply vanish into the void.

This wasn’t a human vendetta anymore. It was something far more hellish, a blackened force that moved with the certainty of fate. Revenge for the Albanians wasn’t about pain—it was about complete obliteration. To strip a man of his life was one thing, but to strip him of his legacy, his very memory, that was a cruelty the Iranians could never have anticipated. And it was that realization—that no one would even remember them when the Albanian mafia was finished—that broke them.

For every Iranian official who disappeared, a chilling quiet fell upon their world. Families didn’t even have the mercy of a funeral. Friends had no graves to visit. Only the haunting knowledge that someone, somewhere, had claimed their due, and there was no undoing it.

There were no headlines, no martyrs. The Albanians were not interested in making a spectacle. To them, revenge was sacred, and there was no need for an audience. Every disappearance, every vanishing, was a stroke in a dark masterpiece of destruction. A testament to the fact that in Albania, honor wasn’t something you could take lightly. And if you did, you’d pay with not just your life—but with everything you had ever been.

The Iranian regime crumbled under the weight of a terror they couldn’t comprehend. They had underestimated what it meant to invoke the wrath of a people whose very existence was built on the principle of vengeance. What they thought would be a calculated attack turned into a nightmare that would haunt their bloodline for generations, leaving nothing behind but stories whispered in dark corners, warnings of what happens when you cross those who live by blood and honor.

In the end, the world was left with no bodies, no traces. Only the lingering sense of dread, a dark reminder of what happens when you awaken the kind of fury that does not rest until everything you were is swallowed by silence. And in that silence, the Albanians stood tall, their honor restored, their revenge complete, leaving behind nothing but the hollow echoes of terror and the knowledge that no one is ever safe from the price of vengeance.