Poetic-mythical-symbolic-linguistic prose with the language of Kastriot Melyshi
The name Jesus does not stand still.
It moves.
It moves the way a center moves when it decides to appear.
In Greek it is Iēsous, in Hebrew Yehōshūaʿ—
“God saves,” they say.
But salvation is only the surface word.
Beneath it, something older stirs:
the act of entering.
In Albanian, God may be called hyu.
Not ruler, not master—
only being.
A sound as small as a point,
[o],
the origin before extension.
Nothing is commanded here;
everything simply is.
Yet the point cannot remain unseen.
Being longs to descend.
So it becomes bir—
the Son,
the one who falls (bie),
not into error,
but into the world.
Descent is not loss;
it is revelation.
To fall is to enter.
And to enter is to be brenda.
But brenda is a dangerous word.
It carries a split within it:
the kernel and the division,
the center and the breaking (nda).
A God who enters risks fracture.
A God who divides risks ceasing to be God.
This is the ancient fear.
This is the ancient drama.
And yet the Name enters anyway.
The point unfolds without shattering.
The kernel remains whole while passing through division.
This is why the Name cannot be fixed.
Every attempt to define it breaks what it touches.
Above this movement stands the square—
four sides, four letters,
YHWH.
Unspoken.
Complete.
Like katër,
that which “has the whole.”
Totality that refuses enclosure.
Sometimes this God is called zot—
lord, master of order,
the one who governs what has already been divided.
Law, height, heaven.
But hyu is older.
Hyu is before law.
Before throne.
Before distance.
Christ is where they meet.
Not God above.
Not God within alone.
But God becoming visible without leaving Himself.
The Name remains open because it must.
A closed name is a dead name.
A living Name moves between languages,
between heavens,
between hearts.
Albanian did not invent this mystery.
It simply did not forget it.
And so the Name continues—
uncontained,
entering,
whole even while broken into sound.
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