Të rinjtë ikin çdo ditë.
Jo nga kurreshtja për botën, por nga tmerri i asaj që kanë përpara: papunësi, padrejtësi, mungesë shprese.
Ikin sepse këtu jeta nuk jetohet — durohet.
Ikim nga krimi që sundon rrugët, nga korrupsioni që ka helmuar çdo zyrë, nga arroganca që është bërë gjuhë zyrtare e pushtetit.
A do të zgjohet ndonjëherë ky popull që ka duruar gjithçka, por nuk ka mësuar asgjë ?
A do të kuptojë se çdo premtim i bukur është thikë e fshehur pas shpinës?
Jo.
Sepse shpresa është vrarë me dorën tonë — me votën tonë, me heshtjen tonë, me frikën tonë.
Ne heshtim, ata pasurohen.
Ne ikim, ata sundojnë.
Ne vdesim, ata buzëqeshin.
Ndoshta një ditë Shqipëria do të ecë,por jo me shqiptarët.
E pra, Shqipëria do të ecë… por jo me shqiptarët.
Ajo do të ngrihet një ditë — por mbi varrin tonë moral.
Kur të kemi ikur të gjithë, kur tokën ta mbulojë heshtja dhe ndërgjegjja të shuhet, atëherë të tjerët do të vijnë.
Ata do ta bëjnë këtë vend të lulëzojë, sepse ne s’mundëm.
Sepse ne heshtëm, u shitëm, u pajtuam, u dorëzuam.
Dhe kur të na kujtojnë, do të thonë: -“Këtu dikur jetoi një popull që kishte gjithçka përveç guximit të ndryshimit.”
“Blessed are those who left; foolish are those who stayed…”
This land — once called blessed —
is now a wound, bleeding every day from injustice.
Our soil, once proud and fertile,
is now stained by greedy hands,
by faces that lie,
by power that does not lead — but rules.
Here, the law has names.
Justice has a price.
And truth hangs forgotten on the wall,
like a dusty portrait no one dares to look at.
In this country, the honest man is judged,
while the thief stands on the podium and preaches morality.
The youth are leaving.
Every day.
Not out of curiosity for the world,
but out of disgust for what they leave behind.
They go because life here is not lived — it’s endured.
Because hope was murdered —
quietly, with a vote, with a promise, with a lie.
Here, crime writes the laws,
politics is a marketplace,
wealth is born from theft,
and honor dies in silence.
Each day is a new funeral — for conscience itself.
Once, we were young, proud, unbroken.
Now we are tired, defeated,
our eyes fixed westward,
our hearts still chained here.
The state has aged — not with wisdom, but with rot.
Instead of judges, we have notaries of crime.
Instead of leaders, merchants of power.
Will we ever wake up?
Will we ever realize that our silence feeds tyranny?
That every time we bow our heads,
another climbs on our backs?
No.
Because hope doesn’t die once — it dies a little every day.
It dies when we stay silent,
when we accept,
when we pretend not to see.
It dies in the dark offices where our fate is signed away.
It dies on the screens where propaganda screams louder than truth.
And while we empty the country,
they fill their pockets.
We leave — they laugh.
We die quietly — they build palaces on our backs.
But remember this — Albania will rise…
just not with us.
She will stand again,
but on our silence, on our surrender, on our graves.
Because when a people gives up,
another takes their place.
And one day, on this soil, others will walk —
free, just, worthy of what we lost.
And we will remain only a memory,
a name carved in stone,
a people who had everything…
except the courage to fight for it.
AL in Sweden. 