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Pasterma city

2024-07-17 22:00:00, Opinione Edison Ypi

Berati, photo taken from Google

Rome "Eternal City", London "Wet City", Prague "Singing City", Mitrovica "Slaughtered City", Lekovic "Dead City", and so on there is "Dancing City", "Crying City" ", "Wounded city", "Killed city", etc. etc.

Berat is not like anything. Berat is the "City of Pasterma".

The ups and downs of history, the storms of time, the invasions, survival, the heat of summer, the cold of winter, the autumn rains, the winds of the valley, were the slow fire that removed Berat's excesses, stubbles, bones, fat, dried up Berat, Berat remained bone and marrow, with a stone castle, houses on the rock, cobbled streets, lean meat, a delicious city, Pasterma City.

Berat is located where the river, after taking a sharp turn like a sullen Wagner, enters the field like a cracked Paganin.

At that bend and that elbow, Ether or Ethiri, creates rifts, which are the reason that life in Berat is broken: minds are confused, interests are confused, they slaughter each other, write books, talk as if they have eaten turtle ass, make careers, get rich.

When you leave for Berat, you take bread with you, books, memorized verses, unhealed wounds, broken dreams, tearful nostalgia, dead memories. You can find it all in Berat. Where God did not trust anyone. He did everything himself: Natural like the mountain in front, like the clouds in the sky, like the river that flows at the feet of Berat, making it so amazing that it leaves no one indifferent.

Who were you, who are you, who will you be? You cannot find these yourself. Berat will say in his ear.

Edison Ypi

Berat dry as pure, there is nothing magnificent, colossal, inspiring, heroic, triumphant. Berat has not won wars, it has not had uprisings, there are no masterpieces on exhibition walls, there are no museums with statues carved by masters, there are no giant constructions, highways, bridges, tunnels. The inhabitants of Berat have not been famous scientists, famous inventors, famous artists. Berati does not have such, they do not need such. Pure yeast is enough for Berat. Berat has people who look after their own work, keep their own house, impregnate their own wife. Berat is a genius survivor.

When you approach it from Lushnja, you see Berat as soon as you see it, you feel your heart beating, you get minty, your forehead sweats, the world comes around you. As soon as you touch it, you ascend to the sky, fall into ecstasy, fall into the abyss, wrap yourself in a dream.

No matter how little, no matter how briefly, even just during a heartbeat, or just a filling of the lungs, you are touching Berat, you have touched History. You are terminally ill with Mangalem, Kala, Goricë, Tomorr, Shpirag, Myzeqe.

Without excesses, without waste, without waste, without fats, without fats, Berat is an ideal place of healing for those who have a headache, can't sleep, are diabetic, their lungs don't fill properly, their heart doesn't pump properly.

Berat is the fruit of a millennial relationship between the man who gives life to the stone, and the stone that makes the man a cobblestone.

Approaching Berat, you leave the banality, jump over the wall, find yourself outside the here and now.

Berati, photo taken from Google

Orators who speak to the crowd in Berat, especially at dusk, after ten minutes their eyes widen, their faces turn yellow, they fall into delirium, it only happens in Berat.

In Berat, every wall is a parchment written with a code, a priest took the code and threw it in Osum. Every stone of the castle is a backstabbing. Every cobblestone is a drama. Every alley a madness. Every window a tragedy. Every boy a Romeo. Every girl a Juliet.

Berat has nothing new. In Berat, everything is old, rusty, crooked, with one foot in the grave, ready to die. Something new in Berat is as impossible as an old newborn baby.

Old age is the only thing that Berat does not negotiate. Never. Under no circumstances. For no price. Not even when vampires rush at him to scare him, two hundred devils beat him, three hundred wolves bite him, one hundred dogs tear him apart.

Berat is not beautiful. Berat is apocalyptic. Berat is magic, fantasy, fairy tale.

The castle, the river, the olives, the cherries, the Beratas that talk a lot, are the book that devours you, the film that takes you, the magic that heals you, the purity that Berat offers.

Berat is the grain of sand that suffered for millions of years inside the shell, until it became a pearl, then pure.