We buy tickets at prices set by the market.
We calculate feelings, boredom, and joy;
love minus its absence,
and we see how mathematics leads to incorrect results.

Confused in stations of arrivals and departures, we lose our way.
Waiting for the train that leads to joy,
but it takes us to the doors of sadness.
Then, confused, we turn back and see that we’ve lost so much:
a work deadline, a coffee with a loved one we’ve been waiting for,
or the last part of a novel we left unfinished.

We end the day and throw the tickets in the trash,
but tomorrow we need a new ticket again:
a journey to see magnificent paintings at the Louvre,
a walk through the wonders of Rome,
or an evening hug by the sea of good memories.

When the week ends, we rest for two days.
And on Sunday evening, we do the math, like a child doing homework:
the money is spent, but the month still has some days left.
We need to buy the monthly ticket for more love;
or for longer pain.
At the end of the month, the calculator of feelings falls to the ground,
and suddenly we spring up.
The coming month is better—spring arrives and the days are long,
or winter’s sorrow falls and the nights are sad.

We buy tickets at prices set by the market,
and confused, we wander through stations of waiting,
hoping for the new day to close the wrong doors.

We go to the theater and buy the ticket for entertainment,
but Tartuffe tells us that the miserly spirit of the world lives in every era.
Then we tickle ourselves and do not open our eyes to see
the truth, because hypocrisy is in fashion.

Another day Hamlet takes the stage,
spoiled and with a sharp gaze, he bursts with rage.
He sees many ghosts scratching the clothes of freedom,
and a sheet with crumpled notes,
saying it always depends on us what statistics we make,
where we plant the flag of sadness and where that of joy.

(Translated from the Albanian by Vlora Konushevci)