My mind keeps wandering 

to places with safety signals,

to places where others have fallen

to places where white flowers rest

upon dead bodies.

My mind keeps asking me the same questions,

of when it will get better,

of when I will find the right words,

of when we will buy white flowers,

of when white flowers will be bought for us.

My mind keeps crying,

at night, when my body is too tired of staying awake,

at night, when my soul has been drenched in sorrow,

at night, when my heart beats too loud within this empty house.

My mind keeps complaining

about the flowers I forgot to water

and the dishes that still wait in the sink,

about the clothes I had to wash 

and the room that has become a mess.

My mind keeps talking

to the body which crawls out of bed in the morning,

to the swollen eyes underneath the make-up,

to the shaking hands that hold coffee-cups. 

My mind keeps invading

my privacy,

and consuming

my capacity to think,
so, today I bought white roses,

and placed them within my mind.

Suddenly, it became silent, all around.

Jehona Thaqi©


Reflection II

I glance at the reflection of myself,

my hair a big mess,

curling at the beginning of my shoulders,

my shoulders crooked,

frowning upon my body,

my body held by two hands,

as if in danger to fall against the ground,

hands holding my stomach,

I can feel the hunger grow,

my stomach filled with coffee and pills,

pills upon my desk,

waiting for the pain to get back.

I watch myself hold on to this body,

to the only breathing creature that still forgives my wrongs,

I watch the mess I have become,

and my hair curling upon my shoulders.

The reflection drowned in tears of selfdestruction,

a pale face, dark and hollow eyes,

small lips trying to speak,

but reflections do not talk,

they merely watch this body fall,

they watch those hands pull closer to its body,

they watch this body tremble.

My hair, a big mess, curling at the beginning of my shoulders,

I think,

whether or not to cut it.

Jehona Thaqi©

Ghost city


City of ghosts
where the visitors are leaving, but leaving no marks,
dancing around these streets,
nourishing their empty stomachs with love.
This city is left hungry, yet not starving.

Suddenly there are no vistors at all;
like forgotten grave yards
somewhere inbetween the hills of empty lands
the street lamps flicker against the softly shinig moon.

A ghost city,
heart of mine,
yet untouched.

Jehona Thaqi©



With light comes truth, they said,
deeply moved by a metaphor
stained with dark shadows.

I have found the truth in darkness,
just before the dawn arrives and
the dew starts falling drop after drop
onto this earth.
In darkness I learned how to
use my tongue properly,
how to see through the walls in front of people’s hearts,
how to distinguish the truth in their statements and
how to touch their souls without leaving fingerprints.
It wasn’t the light which made me see,
rather the comfort of darkness in which the heart finds rest.

With light comes truth, they said.
With light come shadows, I say,
looking for raw souls inbetween the last sunrays and the first twittering of birds in the mornings.

Jehona Thaqi©