Questions of a broken spirit

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A friend of mine asked me
how it was possible that love
can diminish so fast.
She wanted to know
where all the butterflies have gone to
and if they had landed safely upon the ribs of love.
She wondered if the roots are strong enough,
or if there is nothing more to it
than flowers that will sooner or later die,
when winter arrives.

Her eyes seemed weak, almost dead,
eventhough her voice was stable
and her face always radiant.
She had given love when there was nothing left for herself,
she has sacrificed her mellow lips
for burning tongues and sharp teeth.
It broke me to see her understand
that sometimes people leave while staying,
but what could I do?
What more could I say than
time will pass, and you will blossom again.

Jehona Thaqi©

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Lost wars

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The blisters upon her soft skin,
from all the lost wars within herself,
made her understand that lost wars can be victorious.
Let me tell you this,
despite her failures, she was magic.

She believed that she could see stardust in a full-moon’s night.
She believed that her eyes were made of sparkles and glitter
and that the galaxy lies within them.

So why did it matter that she was merely a girl
within a world so cruel.
As long as she believed;
there was nothing to break her permanently.

Jehona Thaqi©

This is no poem

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“I am more than how you choose to see me. And I am not reducing this whole body of mine to a scale from one to ten. You can give me a mark on how I spell my words, but you can not correct my tongue. For I am standing up for the soul that is being born each day, in billion shades of wonderful. I am still trying to find myself and you will not define the time I stop.”

The words that burst out of my mouth.
Things school never taught me.
Thoughts that haunt me.

This is no poem.
Yet for me it is more than that.

Jehona Thaqi©

Melancholy

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Oh, these streets
filled with melancholy sadness,
humming the sound of
broken souls.
Oh, within these streets,
where the skies explode
and the people turn grey,
here I have found myself.
Oh, within these streets
did my heart find rest,
did my eyes find a place
worth crying for.
And if tomorrow nothing matters anymore,
here will I stay until the days turn to dust.

Jehona Thaqi©

Sleeping city

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“Rising sun above the deep blue and calm ocean,
burning clouds above the sleeping city.
The city is still sleeping
but the world is wide awake.”

I wrote this while sitting at the beach of Barcelona, inbetween five and six o’clock in the morning, in late July last year. My notebook was resting upon my thighs, my pen clutched against my fingers and my eyes stared blankely. It was a tremendously sad period of my young life, and that very moment, which I tried to capture with a photograph, made my heart weight less than a feather. I felt free, as if I was starting to understand a new way of living.

I restarted the poem above several times, I crossed out words, made new sentences, but nothing came close to what was happening in front of my eyes. The mixture of those vivid colours and reflections on both the ocean and the clouds were magical. The massive bulidings against the soft and calm water were dancing together,  I relished that moment, as I was extremely happy of having found purpose.

The city was still sleeping. Selfish as I am, it made me think of myself. It made me understand that the absence of happiness in my life does not mean that it isn’t there, that it is non existing. Maybe I was just asleep, sadness being my cussion. Maybe I was asleep at the wrong time, in the wrong place. You see, things will pass. And happiness will always be around, somewhere, at some time.

What a wonderful morning it was, and how much it has affected my days. But still, words will never be enough.

Jehona Thaqi©

Tranquil hours

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Tranquil hours coverd in warm clothes
tasteful coffee and great stories.

Reading expands the horizon of our minds,
that is what my father told me
when I was too small to comprehend the word horizon,
when the meaning was too far from my world.

Today I caught my father reading a book,
the one he has read at least ten times,
the one that makes him be so still and peaceful.
I asked him if the story did not bore him now,
after so many times going through the same pages.

His horizon must be infinte,
I thought, while touching all the books within our little home,
wondering if he still remembers these stories,
or if they have faded just like the letters inside.

Tranquil hours, filled with warmth that touches my heart.
I have read Fitzgerald again, today.
My father smiled, a victorious smile,
stories will never bore you, if they are written well,
each time you read them, you will fall in love with new words.

“One writes of scars healed, a loose parallel to the pathology of the skin, but there is no such thing in the life of an individual. There are open wounds, shrunk sometimes to the size of a pin-prick but wounds still. The marks of suffering are more comparable to the loss of a finger, or of the sight of an eye. We may not miss them, either, for one minute in a year, but if we should there is nothing to be done about it.”

And I read it again,
and again,
and again.

Jehona Thaqi ©

To my friend A. I.

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My friend and I were sitting on the veranda of a coffeehouse in a small alley of our town. We did not talk much that evening, instead we enjoyed every sip of our coffees. Suddenly she lowered her head and asked, with a solid voice but shaking hands, if I believed in love. If I believed that mankind was predestined to love. Or if we learn to love, just as we learn to speak. I had never asked myself if love was a magical thing or if it was something we had been taught to do by history.

I smiled, still thinking of an answer and asking myself if it really did matter. Would it change anything if it was one or the other? What would the point be of knowing where love came from? I leaned back and stared at the sky, how it slowly changed its colour from blue to pink to almost black. It was a cold November night, but a lovely and quiet atmosphere made my body feel safe.

“Maybe I am too naïve, but I think that love comes naturally.”, I said, still watching the skies, refusing to look at her deep brown eyes, “Love has always been with us. It might has changed over the years, with all the movies and books that make us homesick for warm bodies and soft beating hearts. But it must have been here all the time. How else could you explain us falling in love with views and flowers, scents and feelings?”.

She nodded, watching me with an utmost sadness. Even though I avoided looking at her I knew how she felt. Love could be cruel, maybe not love itself, but the way it makes you vulnerable. The way it sometimes makes you dependent on a certain person who can so easily crush everything you ever needed. “Are there people who can not love?”, she asked, with the same voice.

Her voice was one of these rare things you come across in your life if you are lucky enough. It made you go soft inside, even though it was not too feminine, but mellow and tragically lovely to listen to. I knew that her heart was aching at the very moment, but her voice continued being the same solid voice you could listen to all day. No stuttering, no broken words, but a melody as warm as the sound of spring.

“No”, I said, laughing ironically. “We sometimes love too little, or too much. We love the wrong things, seldomly the right. But we all do love. We are all different, so love has to come in different shapes and colours.”. She nodded again, as if my words did not matter at all, as if every other answer would have been the same. I felt dizzy and my vision was blurry, maybe because of all the different light bulbes of this small coffeehouse. How do you explain love to someone who’s heart has been torn by too many people? The lights shone green and yellow and red, I was tired and cold, and tremendously sorry for not being good with words.

She smiled, as if she had read my mind and wanted to say that it is okay. I knew it was not okay. I knew that heartbreak leaves footprints upon the walls of your soul, even love is unable to cover up. But maybe this is the beautiful part. Our broken pieces transform each of us into art. And when we get old, may those days come, we will look back and say we did it. With the right, or the wrong dose of love.

Jehona Thaqi© I would heal you if I could