She had a heart purer than the deepest corner of the sea,
with a spirit just as dark and unexplored,
lurking through the empty streets somewhere within the rising of the moon
and the falling of dew drops.
Her porcelain skin, stained with painful beauty,
shone through each night,
brighter than the northern star.
While her hands cried for justice,
and her eyes screamed for love,
it was her voice which went unheared.
She wanted to tell you that she was not what you believed,
that the words you call her have marked her skin,
that for her the word tiger was no synonym for strenght,
while looking at her tiger wrists.
And when she cried at night,
and tossed and turned, with a heavy heart and tired soul;
you slept in peace upon the cussion of sin.
May you sleep well, then, my friend.
Jehona Thaqi © notes, fragments