To Elona

Dearest Elona
– breathe.

It will all pass, eventually,
like autumn leaves that once covered this earth
and scars that healed into unforgettable memories.

When you see a dying flower,
remember to count the endless springs – yet to come,
for there are blessings that grow
upon grief.

Dearest Elona,
I wish you could see the strength within your bones
and the love that sleeps under your skin –
for it is the greatest I have ever seen.

Jehona Thaqi© To my dear friend

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To God

Are there words enough
for you who reads hearts,
for you who listens to our very thoughts
when we forget that we are thinking?

You sent flowers upon this earth
in all different shapes and colours
and while some grow and bloom after winter leaves,
others wither just at the thought of spring.

How hopeless some seem
with their heads hidden in the ground,
yet only you know how they struggle
to one day meet the sunlight.
How great others seem
dancing in the wind
in colours our poor eyes cannot capture,
yet only you know how they weep and cry
in the darkness of night,
when no one listens to the withering petals.

It is you who loves them
through autumn and spring
so tell me, are there words enough for you?

Are there words enough
for you who has planted seeds of love within our souls
and who waters us patiently
until we bloom again
and again.

Jehona Thaqi © Eid Mubarak 

Darling

Tell me you’re here, darling,
whispering my name
through shattered promises –
aching like broken bones
and open wounds.

What has become of us, darling?
Two strangers sitting across the room,
glaring at each others faces –
with regret burning in our eyes
and resentment aching within our hearts.

I loved you, dearly,
and I know you did, too,
it seems like this world has been to weak
to carry our unearthly love.

We still glare at each other
and smile –
there is nothing left to say,
darling.

Jehona Thaqi©

If I should die

If I should die
bury me in a field of nothingness,
where flowers do not bloom
and the earth is dry.

If I should die
do not cry,
for death is nothing but part of this life.

If I should die
tell my mother I loved her
and my father, too,
tell my brother I loved him
beyond all the greatness of this world.

If I should die
tell yourself
that you were all I ever wished for.

If I should die
forgive me for my wrongs,
I had the dreams of a child
but dreams last only until they’re shattered,
broken,
forgotten like the dead.

If I should die
forget.

Forget that I lived for your love
and that you filled my lungs with air,
forget the sound of my voice
at night; when I said hold me, but you were too far,
forget my writings, all of them,
for I signed everything with your name,
forget the tears I cried
and the memories you broke.

But remember to visit me,
once
after ten years,
and see how I turned nothingness into everything you have ever dreamed of,
see how there are flowers sprouting out of my grave,
and witness how your tongue falls silent for the first time in your life.

Remember
that you can bury not only dead bodies,
but dead souls, too.

Jehona Thaqi© 2017

Mother – Nënë

Mother,
dear mother,
I have intended to write about you more than once,
but I did not know where to start
or where to finish,
for there are no words to describe the magic within your soul,
mother.

You held me close
to the body which ached and shivered,
but nothing felt like home unless it was within your arms; 
it was your love that saved me from pain,
mother,
your hands that healed the scars underneath my skin.

I am sorry mother,
for I have drowned your cheeks with tears too many times,
your soft, porcelain skin and sad eyes;
a doll, like within Kadare’s novel,
utterly beautiful, yet somehow unreal.

Mother,
I could write page after page,
but I have yet not found the right metaphor which comes close to your soul,
so I will hold you, tonight;
dear mother,
and I will tell you
that you are the roots of my happiness;
no matter how far I will go,
you are within my very soul.

***

Nënë,
e dashura nënë,
sa shpesh deshta të shkruaj për ty,
por nuk dija nga ku të  filloj 
ose ku të mbaroj,
sepse nuk ka fjalë të mjaftueshme për ta spjeguar magjinë brenda shpirtit tënd,
nënë.

Më ke mbajtur afer trupit
i cili ishte i permbushur me dhimbje 
por askund nuk u ndjeva në shtëpi, pos në krahet e tua;
ishte dashurija jote e cila me shpëtoj nga dhimbja,
nënë,
duart e tua i sheruan plaget nën lekuren time.

Më fal, nënë,
qe i permbusha faqet e tua me lot;
atë ftyren tënde te butë, lëkurën tënde të bardhë, sytë e tu të merzitur;
kukull, si e pershkruante Kadareja në librin e ti,
një bukuri jashtëtoksore.

Nënë,
mundem të shkruaj pafundsisht për ty,
por ende nuk e kam gjetur metaforën e duhur për ta përshkruar shpirtin tënd;
sonte do të mbaj pran,
e dashura nënë,
dhe do të tregoj
që ti je rrënja e lumturisë sime,
dhe nese jam larg teje,
ti gjëndesh brënda shpirtit tim.

Jehona Thaqi©

Only a woman

You thought I was only a woman,
but you forgot the strength
that flows through my veins and rushes throughout my body,
with bones of steel and healing skin,
for scars tend to grow stronger each time you cut through women like me;
merely women –
whose strength you thought you had buried
while breaking their souls.

You thought I was only a woman,
but you forgot the hands that have raised you
and the love that has nourished the seeds of the man you are today;
do you remember who held you
when your soul ached and your voice shivered,
she, too, is a woman,
who you considered less
the more she gave to you.

You thought I was only a woman,
but you forgot that I am a raging sea,
calm – just before the storm arrives;
but powerful and unapologetic when it comes to being
only
a woman.

Jehona Thaqi ©

The beautiful woman on the picture is my dearest friend Irma.

Unsaid

She regrets it now;
having left everything unsaid.
Her heart breaks by the mere thought
of how everything could have been different if she had said
stay.

He watches the city disappear
in the dust of what seems to be the last memory of happiness.
If only she had said something.
If only he had forgotten his pride for once.

And both at other sides of this world
but in the same state of misery,
watch their worlds turn gray.

Jehona Thaqi © 2016

Wine

I sit alone, lonely,
the evening breeze dancing around my thighs, underneath the dress you loved on me,
flickering candles caressing my pale skin,
empty glasses of wine on empty tables.

I sit alone, lonely,
and I watch the city fall asleep on this sunday evening,
I watch lovers kiss goodbye
and broken hearts run home to their mothers;
for there is nothing a mother can not fix,
but I wonder why it had to be broken in the first place.

I sit alone, lonely,
the waiter kindly reminds me that they are closing,
I nodd, hanging onto my glass of wine,
almost empty,
but still there;
you see, I hang onto the sweet taste of love
and the bitterness which hides underneath your eyelids;
I remember your words, vividly,
and the way your fingertips danced upon my thighs
and the dazzling light of our veranda flickered upon my skin.

I sit alone, lonely,
the last sip of wine;
I see the blurred picture of you,
reaching for me, now.

Empty glass of wine,
but your lips against mine;

a familiar taste.

Jehona Thaqi©

Tulip

image

Tulips grow out of my skin
with roots tangling around this body I once called prison.
To this day, whenever I despise my beating heart,
I remind myself that flowers grow within the cracks of my skin,
inbetween dark and hollow spots,
where once was nothing but grief.
I remind myself that bleeding is healing
and that the tears I cried have been the cleaning rain for my soul.
I remind myself that tulips do not grow
without the cold breeze of winter;
and so do I.
For I have been growing out of pain,
and I will survive each winter to bloom again.

Jehona Thaqi© you will not destroy me

Where did our love go

Where did our love go,
that once twittered like a bird within my ribs,
within this broken cage that found healing in your arms.

Where did our love go,
that grew underneath our skins,
with roots tangling around our bones
and branches that entwined into an artwork while we held each other.

Let me tell you where our love went,
dearest;
it fluttered away – south,
where it found comfort in warmer hands.

The roots died,
and the branches broke –
there was nowhere our little lovebird could build its nest.

Our love –
it went where it belonged to;
far from us.

Jehona Thaqi©