Grave

There are rotting flowers
upon your grave –
grieving their loss
and becoming one
with the dust of your bones.

I wonder how many days will pass
until your name will be buried
alongside your body;
how many days will pass
until my mind will stop carrying your burden.

There are rotting flowers
upon your grave –
I will bring fresh flowers tomorrow
and the day after that
until I forget to remember.

Jehona Thaqi©

Flowers / Lule

I used to pluck flowers
for you
while my white dress
shone bright in spring’s light
and as I danced
so carelessly,
upon freshly watered grass,
you watched from our window
and cried
for all the flowers
gone too soon.

I used to pluck flowers
for you
while you listened to the radio,
wondeing how many fathers had already fallen,
how many mothers were raped
and how many children were left homeless.

I used to pluck flowers
for you
father,
but you never put them in a vase,
like the fathers of my friends.

It is only now,
father,
that I understand
why you never cherished
flowers.

For they reminded you
of our people’s graves.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
ndërsa fustani im i bardhë
shkëlqente në dritën e diellit pranveror;
dhe ndërsa kërceja,
me shumë pakujdesi
mbi barin e ujitur,
më shikoje nga dritarja jonë
dhe të pikonte loti
për të gjitha lulet
e këputura.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
ndërsa ti ndëgjoje radion
dhe e pyesje veten
se sa baballarë kishin vdekur tashmë,
sa nëna u përdhunuan,
dhe sa fëmijë kishin mbetur jetimë.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
baba,
por ti kurrë nuk i vendose ato në vazo, si baballarët e miqve të mi.

Por tani,
baba,
unë e kuptova
përse nuk i ke dashur kurrë lulet qe i këpusja.

Ato të kujtonin varrezat
e popullit tonë.

Jehona Thaqi©

Do you remember / Të kujtohet

Mother,
do you remember my name?
How lovely it sounded
when you called
Jehonë;
like it meant everything
that I was supposed to be.

Do you remember
how you said
that our names will never be forgotten,
as they carry our beloved roots
in the mere sound of our tongue.

Mother,
do you remember my name?
Let it carry our pain
all the way home.

Nënë,
të kujtohet emri im?
Sa bukur tingëllonte
kur më thërrisje
Jehonë;
sikur të ishte gjithçka
që unë supozohem të jemë.

Të kujtohet
kur më thoje
se emrat tanë nuk do të harrohen;
sepse mbajn rrënjët tona të përzemërta
në tingullin e gjuhës sonë.

Nënë,
të kujtohet emri im?
Si jehonë do ndëgjohet dhimbja e jonë,
larg; në shtëpi.

Jehona Thaqi© Jehona is an Albanian name, which means echo

Rosen

Entfaltet;
wie die Blätter der Rosen
– blühendes rot,
leuchtend im Licht der Dämmerung.

Spürst du den Wind,
welcher durch die Blätter tanzt?
Er ruft deinen Namen,
bis die Nacht ihn in die Wiege legt.

Fürchte dich nicht,
auch wenn die Blüten fallen;
so lass’ sie den Boden bedecken,
wie ein Schleier deiner Selbst.

Und wenn nur verwelkte Blätter
über den Boden schau’n;
sei dir gewiss –
der nächste Frühling kommt bestimmt.

Jehona Thaqi©

Empty

Empty;
too much space within my heart,
memories fading like flowers in autumn, withering, dying. I have buried them long ago.

Empty;
too many thoughts within my mind,
making me forget what I once cherished most in life. For what is life, if there is no purpose.

Empty;
I have forgotten the pain that sleeps within my body and broken soul. I cannot seem to remember, what has been there for too long.

Empty;
how do I explain feeling
everything –
and nothing at all.

Jehona Thaqi©

An open letter (II)

I sit silently upon my bed,
my hands resting on my thighs,
caressing this dress you loved on me,
wondering if you still remember
my name.

I sit there until the sound of rain diminishes into nothingness,
until gray skies turn black
and the autumn wind slowly falls asleep.

I wonder if you remember
the way I danced upon my veranda,
careless –
for there was nothing to worry about;
I thought I had found love within your arms,
instead my arms were nothing to you,
but a port of desire.

I sit silently upon my bed,
my hands pressed tightly on my thighs.

There is nothing left to remember.

Jehona Thaqi©

When love leaves

image

When love leaves
at the beginning of everything,
leaves you
at the beginning of endless pain;
it seems it leaves
before the end,
as the end shall never come.

When love leaves
with all you ever had
and leaves the memory
of all you have been;
it seems it leaves
before the end,
as the end shall never come.

When love leaves,
please leave too.
Go home, to your roots,
for love will leave before the end,
as it knows no end at all.
Love will leave,
and you will shrink,
but how soon you will grow
before you know;
as love leaves before the end,
and it knows no end at all.

When love leaves
you broken
and withered
and crooked
and small,
then leave, too.
Remember that you are the first love of all.

Remember
to go home
to yourself.

Jehona Thaqi© you are your greatest strength

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

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©