Poems of Menda Vreto (Albania)

Menda Vreto is an Albanian writer who lives and creates in Italy. She is the author of several books published in Italian and regularly collaborates with both online and print magazines, where she publishes literary articles and essays.
Her work has received significant recognition. Among her achievements is the Special Jury Award in the literary competition Il Silenzio Uccide (Silence Kills), where her work was given a prominent place in the anthology.
Her first book also attracted the attention of the prestigious magazine Marie Claire, which featured her extensively, recognizing both her work and her journey as an author.
Menda Vreto proudly bears the surname Vreto, which is connected to the distinguished figure of the Albanian National Renaissance, Jani Vreto. She considers this family name a legacy of great cultural and historical significance.



The Homeland That No Longer Speaks
Menda Vreto

We left,
not as people,
but as seasons torn from their own calendar.

We parted from the land
like roots scorched in silence,
and the roads behind us
remained open only to the wind.

The homeland did not call us.

It remained silent.

A heavy silence,
like a bell submerged beneath the water.

Our homes grew old while waiting for us.

The walls absorbed the dampness of our absence,
the courtyards filled with brambles,
and the dogs barked through the night
as if searching for our shadows behind the gates.

We arrived in cities of dazzling lights,
where the sky had no stars,
only signs glowing like artificial suns.

We learned foreign languages,
professional smiles,
lives measured by schedules,
loves with conditions,
dreams tied to contracts.

And yet, within us,
there remained a land
that never stopped dying.

An entire village continues to walk inside our hearts:

women carrying water at dusk,
old men speaking with the vineyards,
barefoot children chasing the dust of summer.

They still live there,
in that part of the soul
where nostalgia
refuses to emigrate.

The homeland, by now,
is a broken voice
that reaches us at night
from the old radios of memory.

It is a breath
that throws open the windows of sleep
and fills our lungs with earth.

We laugh at foreign tables,
raise our glasses,
make plans,
take photographs,
raise children who speak other languages.

Then, suddenly,
in the midst of happiness,
a nameless absence passes through us.

And it is then that we understand:

the homeland was not only a place.

It was the way our mother
called our name.

It was the scent of bread in the morning.

It was the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof.

It was someone who recognized our footsteps
even when we returned from far away.

Now it no longer speaks.

Or perhaps
it is we
who have forgotten
how to listen to its sorrow.




When My Hands Are Not Enough
Menda VRETO

I am powerless.
And yet, my heart keeps reaching
for every child in this wounded world—

for those who hear the thunder of bombs
before they ever hear the music of laughter,
for those who learn the language of fear
before they learn the language of dreams.

I wish I could gather them from the ruins,
lift them gently from the dust,
return the legs stolen by explosions,
and place a parent's embrace
around the hearts of children
who have lost the arms that once protected them.

I wish I could bring bread
where hunger has become a daily companion,
water where the earth has forgotten to give,
and a warm home
where families could gather again
without fear of tomorrow.

I wish I could build schools
where every child could open a book
instead of running from a battlefield;
where they could learn to read and write,
to imagine,
to create,
to believe that their future
belongs to them.

I wish I could dig wells
where the ground is thirsty,
build roads where there are only ruins,
and open paths
toward places where life
can begin again.

I wish I could heal the sick,
hold the hands of those who suffer,
and stand beside the elderly
whose strength has slowly disappeared,
whispering to them:

You are not forgotten.

I wish I could do all of this.

But I am powerless.

Sometimes the suffering of the world
feels like an ocean,
and my two hands
feel far too small to hold it.

Then I look into the eyes of a child
and remember something simple:

darkness is never strong enough
to extinguish every light.

Perhaps I cannot stop a war,
but I can refuse to become indifferent.

Perhaps I cannot feed every hungry child,
but I can share what is within my reach.

Perhaps I cannot build every school,
every home, every well,
but I can build one small bridge of kindness
between one human heart and another.

And when my hands are not enough,
when my strength has reached its limit,
I can still pray.

Not a prayer that belongs to one nation,
one border, or one religion,
but a prayer born from the deepest place
where all humanity is one:

May the guns fall silent.
May no child wake to the sound of war.
May hunger give way to bread,
thirst give way to water,
and poverty give way to dignity.
May broken families find one another again.
May every child have a school,
a home,
a future,
and a reason to smile.

I am powerless,
but I am not helpless.

Because love is never powerless.

It begins with a thought,
becomes a prayer,
becomes a hand reaching out,
becomes a voice refusing to remain silent.

And perhaps that is how the world changes—
not all at once,
not through the strength of one person,
but through millions of small lights
refusing to go dark.

So I will keep my light alive.

For the child beneath the rubble.
For the mother waiting for peace.
For the father who never came home.
For the elderly who have been forgotten.
For every soul that still believes
tomorrow can be kinder than today.

I am powerless.

But I can love.

And sometimes,
one heart that refuses to stop loving
is enough to begin lighting the way
for an entire world.





A Caress for the World
Menda Vreto

I would like to place a caress
on the forehead of the Earth,
as one does with a child
when they are afraid of the dark.

I would like to wipe away the tears
of those who have lost a home,
of those who have lost an embrace,
of those who walk in sorrow,
still searching for a little light.

I would like to whisper to every wounded heart:
“You are not alone.
I see you.
I feel your pain.”

Peace is not a distant word,
written only in books.
Peace lives in small gestures:
in bread broken and shared,
in a hand held with love,
in a smile given without asking for anything in return.

There are mothers who wait,
children who ask only for a peaceful sky,
people who carry within them wounds
that no one can see.

To them I would like to offer a promise:
a gentler world,
a world where no one should ever feel forgotten.

Because peace is born quietly,
in the heart of the one who forgives,
in the hands of the one who helps,
in the eyes of the one who chooses
to see a brother in another.

And so, dear Earth,
heal slowly.

We will be here,
with open hearts,
to protect your greatest dream:
to live together,
without fear,
with love .