Freedom

She held galaxies
inbetween her ribs
and her soft beating heart.

An undiscovered mistery
underneath a veil that seemed
so much like a prison
but was her very freedom.

Jehona Thaqi©

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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

Tulip

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Tulips grow out of my skin
with roots tangling around this body I once called prison.
To this day, whenever I despise my beating heart,
I remind myself that flowers grow within the cracks of my skin,
inbetween dark and hollow spots,
where once was nothing but grief.
I remind myself that bleeding is healing
and that the tears I cried have been the cleaning rain for my soul.
I remind myself that tulips do not grow
without the cold breeze of winter;
and so do I.
For I have been growing out of pain,
and I will survive each winter to bloom again.

Jehona Thaqi© you will not destroy me

Wine

I sit alone, lonely,
the evening breeze dancing around my thighs, underneath the dress you loved on me,
flickering candles caressing my pale skin,
empty glasses of wine on empty tables.

I sit alone, lonely,
and I watch the city fall asleep on this sunday evening,
I watch lovers kiss goodbye
and broken hearts run home to their mothers;
for there is nothing a mother can not fix,
but I wonder why it had to be broken in the first place.

I sit alone, lonely,
the waiter kindly reminds me that they are closing,
I nodd, hanging onto my glass of wine,
almost empty,
but still there;
you see, I hang onto the sweet taste of love
and the bitterness which hides underneath your eyelids;
I remember your words, vividly,
and the way your fingertips danced upon my thighs
and the dazzling light of our veranda flickered upon my skin.

I sit alone, lonely,
the last sip of wine;
I see the blurred picture of you,
reaching for me, now.

Empty glass of wine,
but your lips against mine;

a familiar taste.

Jehona Thaqi©

To God

Are there words enough
for you who reads hearts,
for you who listens to our very thoughts
when we forget that we are thinking?

You sent flowers upon this earth
in all different shapes and colours
and while some grow and bloom after winter leaves,
others wither just at the thought of spring.

How hopeless some seem
with their heads hidden in the ground,
yet only you know how they struggle
to one day meet the sunlight.
How great others seem
dancing in the wind
in colours our poor eyes cannot capture,
yet only you know how they weep and cry
in the darkness of night,
when no one listens to the withering petals.

It is you who loves them
through autumn and spring
so tell me, are there words enough for you?

Are there words enough
for you who has planted seeds of love within our souls
and who waters us patiently
until we bloom again
and again.

Jehona Thaqi © Eid Mubarak 

If I should die

If I should die
bury me in a field of nothingness,
where flowers do not bloom
and the earth is dry.

If I should die
do not cry,
for death is nothing but part of this life.

If I should die
tell my mother I loved her
and my father, too,
tell my brother I loved him
beyond all the greatness of this world.

If I should die
tell yourself
that you were all I ever wished for.

If I should die
forgive me for my wrongs,
I had the dreams of a child
but dreams last only until they’re shattered,
broken,
forgotten like the dead.

If I should die
forget.

Forget that I lived for your love
and that you filled my lungs with air,
forget the sound of my voice
at night; when I said hold me, but you were too far,
forget my writings, all of them,
for I signed everything with your name,
forget the tears I cried
and the memories you broke.

But remember to visit me,
once
after ten years,
and see how I turned nothingness into everything you have ever dreamed of,
see how there are flowers sprouting out of my grave,
and witness how your tongue falls silent for the first time in your life.

Remember
that you can bury not only dead bodies,
but dead souls, too.

Jehona Thaqi© 2017

Mother – Nënë

Mother,
dear mother,
I have intended to write about you more than once,
but I did not know where to start
or where to finish,
for there are no words to describe the magic within your soul,
mother.

You held me close
to the body which ached and shivered,
but nothing felt like home unless it was within your arms; 
it was your love that saved me from pain,
mother,
your hands that healed the scars underneath my skin.

I am sorry mother,
for I have drowned your cheeks with tears too many times,
your soft, porcelain skin and sad eyes;
a doll, like within Kadare’s novel,
utterly beautiful, yet somehow unreal.

Mother,
I could write page after page,
but I have yet not found the right metaphor which comes close to your soul,
so I will hold you, tonight;
dear mother,
and I will tell you
that you are the roots of my happiness;
no matter how far I will go,
you are within my very soul.

***

Nënë,
e dashura nënë,
sa shpesh deshta të shkruaj për ty,
por nuk dija nga ku të  filloj 
ose ku të mbaroj,
sepse nuk ka fjalë të mjaftueshme për ta spjeguar magjinë brenda shpirtit tënd,
nënë.

Më ke mbajtur afer trupit
i cili ishte i permbushur me dhimbje 
por askund nuk u ndjeva në shtëpi, pos në krahet e tua;
ishte dashurija jote e cila me shpëtoj nga dhimbja,
nënë,
duart e tua i sheruan plaget nën lekuren time.

Më fal, nënë,
qe i permbusha faqet e tua me lot;
atë ftyren tënde te butë, lëkurën tënde të bardhë, sytë e tu të merzitur;
kukull, si e pershkruante Kadareja në librin e ti,
një bukuri jashtëtoksore.

Nënë,
mundem të shkruaj pafundsisht për ty,
por ende nuk e kam gjetur metaforën e duhur për ta përshkruar shpirtin tënd;
sonte do të mbaj pran,
e dashura nënë,
dhe do të tregoj
që ti je rrënja e lumturisë sime,
dhe nese jam larg teje,
ti gjëndesh brënda shpirtit tim.

Jehona Thaqi©

Ribeira

I wonder how many names you had to forget
in order to remember your own,
dear friend;
for you were a masterpiece to this world,
as colorful and historic as the buildings of Porto’s ribeira;
yet broken, for I could see the cracks upon walls
and dying lightbulbs underneath blank ceilings.

I wonder how many heartbreaks you had to live through
in order to love yourself first,
for you thought your heart could hold all of them,
like within this part of the city;
too many temporary visitors dancing through its streets, leaving nothing but footprints behind
and too few lovers who stay to renovate the abandoned homes.

I believe
that your heart is more than a port of desire;
dear friend.

Jehona Thaqi©

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 gray 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©

Nothing

Her porcelain skin and rosé colored cheeks
shone brightly in the dazzeling light of a full moon’s night,
her deep brown hair dancing through the wind
and saving the snowflakes from falling to the white carpet underneath her feet.

She was a woman of vivid dreams and far lands,
if only she could see herself through less deceitful eyes than hers;
if only she knew the very impact of her tears upon this earth
then she would walk slowly upon the freshly fallen snow
and conquer more than the ground could ever hold.

Instead she ran home;
her soft heart drowning in a sea of self-destruction and pain,
she slammed the doors behind her; tremendously sorry for her still breathing lungs,
and while her hands began to shake in agony of losing life
or maybe of living,
her cries softened and she fell silent again.

This breath-taking woman
had everything
but saw nothing.

Jehona Thaqi© [my drawing of Lana del Rey]