Ndue Dragusha was born on September 29, 1953 in the village of Dragusha, on the outskirts of Lezha (Albania). Ndue finished his secondary education at the "Shejnaze Juka" school in the city of Shkodra and then graduated from the Institute of Education in the branches: Albanian Language - Literature and Lower Cycle, also in Shkodër. In addition to this, Dragusha also graduated in Tirana in Psychology. Ndue has worked as a teacher in all cycles of education in different places in the Lezha district. Since 1998 Ndue has been the Director of the newspaper "LISSABA", a literary-artistic newspaper, which has traveled around and off our continent. Ndue Dragusha started writing when she was in high school, where he was also very active in artistic and cultural activities. Ndue Dragusha is already one of the most accomplished intellectuals in the city and district of Lezha, who, within the scope of the above attributes, has for years formed the profile of a serious creator in the genre of poetry and prose. His poetry is so varied that it can be said to be one of the best in this collection: with realistic variations and motifs, metrical variables in verse, regular linguistic organization, sometimes according to our creative tradition, but also in contemporary forms, with which Ndue Dragusha has outlined what is called "authorial style". Ndue Dragusha has also been successful in the field of scientific prose, with a monograph and two biographies of prominent figures... So far, he has published several books.
WHEN YOU’RE MISSING...
The walls are silent,
dripping with pain.
The shadow of your dress pours into the corner of the room
(it still carries the scent of your body).
A light breeze blows outside,
sending messages through the night to the moon,
deep in thought,
Clouds limp through the dark alleys of my city.
In these moments,
I see what you don't,
I see the silent seagulls of pain, swimming in the blue milk of the sky.
Tongues of silence lick my body,
I feel only the pain on the roads of the map made by your lips...
The night speaks to itself in a coded language
of the wind that crashes against the walls of my silence.
When you’re missing...
- Albania -