The Three-Day Melt (via Google Translate)

The poem below translated into Albanian and then re-translated back into English mechanically. After waiting a week it begins to beat an old tattoo. And we are among the few, digging out our slush neighborly provided at the expense of metal smelting, and thinking himself heroic. Glossed by the sun-suffering snow path reaches a glaze, as a hotel lobby magazine, before stronger, Grays, cover stained newsprint. Here are the furrows have done, footfalls disappear. Now we are forgetting claustrophobic days, beating around the bush to clear the roads negotiable back to the usual rush. From suspension now, acceleration hours push on; clouds clear and we can not mark time, appreciate, at least not to watch every step.