If I could

I would put my arms around you if I could;
hold onto the body that held me in silence,
run my fingers across the spine that carried much more than its own weight,
put my cheeks at the edge of the shoulders that have endured rain on sunny days,
wrap my hands around the hardened knuckles and stiff fingers;
but I can not.

You sit across the room,
I glare at your soft features and glowing skin;
your face a mirror of your soul, beautiful and tired,
with wrinkles across your forehead and dark circles underneath your eyes;
I see a young man tired of fighting alone, yet too proud to tell me so –
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the room grows bigger each time I move towards you,
unable to reach your soft skin and tired soul.

You look at me with big eyes and a vivid smile,
a smile as soft and tender as described in Fitzgerald’s novel,
and you too, like Gatsby, will sooner or later diminish into nothingness
if you do not let me take your pain;
I would put my arms around you if I could,
but the more I run towards you,
the further you seem to be.

I will put my arms around you, dear,
so open up your soul,
for I have love within my broken heart
which can heal both of us.

Jehona Thaqi© I am here

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My dearest son

My dearest son,
you are still too small to understand my words,
yet you know exactly that something is wrong.

While my tears fall upon your soft skin,
I hold your fragile body against my chest,
I hold onto this tiny miracle,
this wonderful gift life has given to me.

My dearest son,
you are still too small to understand the words I say
with a shivering voice and sad eyes,
yet you know exactly that something is wrong.

You look at me with big eyes,
wondering why your mother is sad,
while she holds the definition of love
within her shaking hands.

My dearest son,
you know that something is wrong.
But be not afraid,
time will pass and memories will fade;
and at the end of the day
all that matters is you.

My dearest son,
I do not remember grieve
since the day you were born,
although my soul has marched through war
and has lost too many of its colours.

My dearest son,
I will not grieve anymore.

Jehona Thaqi

Homeland – Atdhe

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My hands ache for the strength of your body,
and how you hold me after the sun sets and the moon rises,
with words as sweet as honey from your forests and mountains,
dripping upon my tongue in order to mend my broken bones and hollow memories.

How many tears you have cried for the dead people sleeping underneath your ground,
for the people tortured and killed,
whose bodies have yet not been found,
but sure are lurking somewhere upon your skin,
turning slowly into dust,
as if they had never existed.
How many tears have you cried
for mothers weeping at the boneless graves of their sons,
and for the daughters, whose definition of father is based on blurry thoughts and memories.
How many tears have you cried
for sons, whose sisters have been reduced to nothing but their bodies,
and for fathers, whose proud daughters have been touched with dirty hands of war crime.

Oh, homeland, await my coming,
for I will plant flowers within your dying heart and my dying memories.
And the wind will put dust upon our bodies,
so we will remember the boneless graves and crying mothers,
we will remember that we shall never forget.

Përmallohem për fuqinë e trupit tënd dhe gjuhën tënde te qetë,
për mënyren si më mbanë në mes të muzgut dhe agimit,
me fjalë të ëmbëla si mjalta që pikon nga malet e tua,
që shëron kujtimet e mija të thyera.

Sa lot ke derdhur për trupat e pajetë nën tokën tënde,
për ata që u torturuan dhe u vranë pa meshirë,
për ata që eshtrat e tyre qëndrojn të pazbuluar
por që sigurisht po shndërrohen në pluhur mbi lëkuren tënde të njomë.
Sa lot ke derdhur për nënat që vuajn mbi varrezat e thata të djemve të tyre,
dhe për vajzat, për të cilat defincioni i babës qëndron në kujtime të zbehta dhe mendime të largëta.
Sa lot ke derdhur për djemt të cilët ua moren motrat si prona të pavlera,
dhe për baballarët që i shikonin vajzat e tyre me shpirt të bardhë, të njollosura nga krimet e luftës.

Oh atdhe, më prit se erdha.
Do i mbjell lulet në zemrën tënde të shkretë dhe në kujtimet e mia të zbehta.
Dhe era do e shpërndajë pluhurin në trupin tonë,
për ti kujtuar varrezat e thata të djemve tanë dhe lotët e nënave tona,
do të na e kujtojë që nuk kemi për ti harruar kurrë.

Jehona Thaqi© Ah, atdhe.

When love leaves

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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

Do not cry, my boy

Dearest son; 

you are the greatest gift of all,

despite sleepless nights

and the times you cry 

– seemingly without reason; 

or reasons I do yet not understand,

when I feel so helpless and sad

and my silent tears fall upon your soft cheeks.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is holding you tight

to the body that suddenly became strong;

within the arms that do not hide behind the back anymore;

caressing your head with the finger that once danced upon falling hopes.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is here to protect you,

the way you protect your mother from sorrow and heart break; 

you – this small little boy – are the greatest gift of all,

and if this world falls apart

and all my hopes are shattered,

I will hold on to the memories we are creating.

Do not cry, my boy;

but if you do,

even fifty years from now,

come running to your mother

so I can hold you

and mend your soft beating heart.

– Jehona Thaqi© I love you Noar

Too much

I talked too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my existence was bound to my words
and to the little spaces
between breathing and speaking.

I laughed too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if I was a puppet of happiness
and I danced to the rythm
of everyone’s well-being.

I cried too much,
for whenever I was quiet
you said something was wrong,
as if my tears were the only proof of a crying heart,
and the way I grasped for air
was my way to say sorry.

But sometimes,
silence became the only language
I knew how to speak.
Sometimes, when you were far,
I forgot that there were words to say,
and stories to laugh at,
and songs to cry to.

Sometimes my heart ached
for you to call
and say that something was wrong.

Jehona Thaqi ©

To my husband

I write
whenever I am miserable
and my heart cries in silence
for the empty seats of love within me,
when my mind is heavy
with unsaid words 
and negativity towards itself
– then my hand starts writing 
the most beautiful and tragical poems
I could ever think of.

But today I am writing 
out of happiness and love,
with no empty seats left
– a crowd that has come to witness 
the most magical moment of all.

Today I am breathing
– in and out,
slowly inhaling the sweet scent of your skin;
and exhaling in utter calmness
all problems that we have learned to forget with the passing of time.

Today I am content
with everything there is
and with everything there has ever been.

Jehona Thaqi© thank you, husband


An open letter

I sit silently upon our bed
the clock ticking  in the corner of our room,
birds twittering to the melody of a late summer evening
and while the last sunrays enter our small house
I think of your soft hands and mellow lips;
I think of how you used to hold my jaw
as if it was the greatest you have ever held.

Time passes; the clock still ticking,
until its sound diminishes within the blurred pictures of my mind,
skies turn grey and birds fall silent
and I sit there, dry eyes and empty heart,
I sit in order to remember
how you said love would never be forgotten
and how quickly you forgot to call it love.

Sometimes I do not know why I write letters to you
again and again,
unread stories and untold secrets,
floating within the space of your fingers and my desk.

Maybe one day you will have the time to read
what has taken me too long to witness.

Jehona Thaqi©

A letter to my unborn child

There is life growing 
within the spaces of my body I once despised;
a new heart beating against the insecurities of my own,
fullfilling me with strength
I did not know existed.

Dear child,
you are still as small as a rose petal,
yet for your mother you are greater than anything this world contains;
for you have filled my body with life
and you are nourishing my spirit with seeds of love.

Dear child;
I keep pressing my hands against my stomach,
softly – 
wishing you were already within my hands,
but good things take time;
so I will wait patiently until the day we meet
and I will kiss your cheeks and small hands
until your cries soften and you fall asleep.

I wish my words were enough to express the love I feel towards you,
dearest child,
but my tongue is unable to speak what my heart has felt
since the day I knew you existed.

Within my twenty years upon this world
I have never felt stronger
until you became my very source of happiness.

Jehona Thaqi© all rights reserved

Tonight

Tonight

I can feel the loss within my heart grow;

emptiness tangling its roots around my bones,

sadness settling inbetween my mouth and eyes,

making it hard to talk

and even harder to cry;

my body a war-field of lost soldiers, trying to protect

the ruins of the saint heart a woman carries within.

Tonight

I have lost my words,

or was it my tongue, I do not know,

and in agony of losing myself 

I have lost the parts of me I loved;

it is said that beauty lies within the eyes of the beholder,

but what beauty is there

in dying hearts and tongue-tied women.

Tonight

I have become the woman you desired;

dear friend,

I have lost my words, or tongue,

or maybe both

and with them the strength of my bones,

I have lost wars within my mind

and I have opened the doors of my soul to the dark emptiness

that will sooner or later conquer

the remaining ruins of this body.

Tonight

I have lost,

and I am losing;

I have become

and I am becoming;

woman enough,

inhuman.

Jehona© I am sorry