Dear G.,


I have written your name inside of my wrists,
even if new hands will hold me
they will never be able to reach you.

I have hidden our history underneath my tongue,
I will not speak of you, but I will always taste the sweetness
of what we once had.

I have left a part of you in my heart;
it has grown roots so strong that even after years of solitude
I can still feel them moving against my heartbeat.

I have named the universe after you
as only your name would come close
to the explosive and unexplainable mystery above our heads.

You see, you will never leave this heart of mine,
even if you are already gone.

Jehona Thaqi © notes I took while sitting in your favorite café




The blurred pictures within my head
are growing roots, twisted among the truth.
So heavy my mind has become,
I know not distinguish between what has been there and what not.
My imagination keeps growing
with pictures of falsehood and lies,
and sometimes there are pictures
of desired dreams which never were mine.

I have heared them say
“She has gone mad, like all of them”,
questioning if madness is evil
or if we all are some kind of mad within our secret walls.
Is the fault mine that pictures have become
indistinguishable and sad,
or am I mad for talking about my mind becoming too heavy for my neck.

I would tell you that I tried
but until today I did not.
My mind was too weak to ever fight a war
against those blurry thoughts.
You see, I tried to hold on to you, you seemed so strong
within my head,
but eventually you broke down, leaving nothing behind
but dust upon my blurry mind.

Jehona Thaqi © are poets mad, or am I a poet



Today I passed by a flowershop
as colorfull as my ancient soul,
but my eyes were fixed
on a bucket of white roses.
White roses upon the dust
of a graveyard never visited,
flakes of snow covering their petals
pressing them against the dead bodies.
Dead bodies, dead spirits,
eyes that will never again see,
hands that will not touch nor feel,
mouths that won’t speak, that won’t whisper.
What if I bought those roses
and laid them on my ribs,
will they give life to the dead heart
I am carrying around?
Or will they die, like roses upon graves?

Jehona Thaqi ©



High above Paris,
holding tight to the arms that held me
whenever I thought that holding on meant weakness,
to the arms that said
without words.

The city of love
and its mellow talk, its sweet scent of crêpes
on every corner of its streets.
The cafés filled with beautiful people,
melodramatic music,
glasses of wine, always left half full.

A city of love,
because of its calm and tender kisses,
roses and chocolate,
and everything so soft, so lovely.

And here I am,
high above Paris,
holding tight to these arms, to a love so raw,
so cruel at times.
Maybe I never understood the idea of love,
maybe I never will.

L’amour has broken me in places I never knew existed
and healed scars I thought would remain forever.
But it was never easy,
it was never Paris.

Jehona Thaqi © All rights reserved

Untitled II


Her white porcelain skin,
her words always silent
her eyes fixed upon mine,
as lifeless as these walls, yet stronger than stone could ever be.
Her hands ice cold and stiff,
like statues of the ancient greeks.
But something made me think of her higher than of any other companion.
When I touched that freezing hand,
I was compelled by a thought
that maybe nothing really is impossible.
How else would you explain
a dead living?

Jehona Thaqi©, unfinished poem