Ilir Shaqiri
Kur Hesht Iliri
ShqipKu ndriçon plisi, përthekon guna,
Ku është buka-bukë, e uji-ujë,
Ku digjet qiri, e tymon una,
Rrjedh lum Drini, e rrjedh lum Buna.
Ku digjet qiri, e tymon una,
Rrjedh lum Drini, e rrjedh lum Buna.
Natën e zezë, del para Abeja,
N’ballin e tij thur, me kujtime e gjak,
Midis kraharorit, të shkrepë rrufeja,
Klithmën e moçme, e zgjonë prapë.
Midis kraharorit, të shkrepë rrufeja,
Klithmën e moçme, e zgjonë prapë.
[ref.]
Ku heshtë Iliri, flet vetë Albani,
Në valle lisi, ku feston fisi,
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
E shpresa syrin, e hapë në diell,
E midis natës, në peshë të vonë,
Fjala fluturon, flet vetë në qiell,
Këngën e moçme, e bën jehonë.
Fjala fluturon, flet vetë në qiell,
Këngën e moçme, e bën jehonë.
Në vehte thur, vetë dijen e durimit,
Si këngën e dhembjes, dhembjes t’pafund,
N’botën e gjallë, t’humbjes t’shpëtimit,
Njohur rinjohur, përditë pa muj.
N’botën e gjallë, t’humbjes t’shpëtimit,
Njohur rinjohur, përditë pa muj.
[ref.]
Ku heshtë Iliri, flet vetë Albani,
Në valle lisi, ku feston fisi,
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi…
Ku është buka-bukë, e uji-ujë,
Ku digjet qiri, e tymon una,
Rrjedh lum Drini, e rrjedh lum Buna.
Ku digjet qiri, e tymon una,
Rrjedh lum Drini, e rrjedh lum Buna.
Natën e zezë, del para Abeja,
N’ballin e tij thur, me kujtime e gjak,
Midis kraharorit, të shkrepë rrufeja,
Klithmën e moçme, e zgjonë prapë.
Midis kraharorit, të shkrepë rrufeja,
Klithmën e moçme, e zgjonë prapë.
[ref.]
Ku heshtë Iliri, flet vetë Albani,
Në valle lisi, ku feston fisi,
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
E shpresa syrin, e hapë në diell,
E midis natës, në peshë të vonë,
Fjala fluturon, flet vetë në qiell,
Këngën e moçme, e bën jehonë.
Fjala fluturon, flet vetë në qiell,
Këngën e moçme, e bën jehonë.
Në vehte thur, vetë dijen e durimit,
Si këngën e dhembjes, dhembjes t’pafund,
N’botën e gjallë, t’humbjes t’shpëtimit,
Njohur rinjohur, përditë pa muj.
N’botën e gjallë, t’humbjes t’shpëtimit,
Njohur rinjohur, përditë pa muj.
[ref.]
Ku heshtë Iliri, flet vetë Albani,
Në valle lisi, ku feston fisi,
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Merr n’thu e bie, bie tirani,
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi.
Në male t’bardha, bardhon plisi…
Where The Illyrian Falls Silent
AnglishtWhere the plis shines, the cloak is fastened,
Where the bread is bread, and the water is water,
Where the candle burns, and the smoke rises,
The Drin river flows, as does Buna.
Where the candle burns, and the smoke rises,
The Drin river flows, as does Buna.
In the dark night, Abeja comes up-front,
In his forehead weaves, memories with blood,
In the center of his chest, the thunder strikes,
The old cry, wakes up again.
In the center of his chest, the thunder strikes,
The old cry, wakes up again.
[chorus]
Where the Illyrian falls silent, the Albanian speaks up,
In a dance of oaks, where the tribe rejoices.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
Hope opens its eye, to the sun,
And in the midst of night, in the weight of the late hour,
The word flies over, speaks alone in the sky,
The ancient song, turns into an echo.
The word flies over, speaks alone in the sky,
The ancient song, turns into an echo.
Within itself, it weaves the wisdom of patience,
Like the song of sorrow, of endless pain.
In the living world, of loss and salvation,
Known and reknown, each day without end.
In the living world, of loss and salvation,
Known and reknown, each day without end.
[chorus]
Where the Illyrian falls silent, the Albanian speaks up,
In a dance of oaks, where the tribe rejoices.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright...
Where the bread is bread, and the water is water,
Where the candle burns, and the smoke rises,
The Drin river flows, as does Buna.
Where the candle burns, and the smoke rises,
The Drin river flows, as does Buna.
In the dark night, Abeja comes up-front,
In his forehead weaves, memories with blood,
In the center of his chest, the thunder strikes,
The old cry, wakes up again.
In the center of his chest, the thunder strikes,
The old cry, wakes up again.
[chorus]
Where the Illyrian falls silent, the Albanian speaks up,
In a dance of oaks, where the tribe rejoices.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
Hope opens its eye, to the sun,
And in the midst of night, in the weight of the late hour,
The word flies over, speaks alone in the sky,
The ancient song, turns into an echo.
The word flies over, speaks alone in the sky,
The ancient song, turns into an echo.
Within itself, it weaves the wisdom of patience,
Like the song of sorrow, of endless pain.
In the living world, of loss and salvation,
Known and reknown, each day without end.
In the living world, of loss and salvation,
Known and reknown, each day without end.
[chorus]
Where the Illyrian falls silent, the Albanian speaks up,
In a dance of oaks, where the tribe rejoices.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
The tyrant stumbles and falls, he falls
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright.
In the white mountains, the plis shines bright...
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