Dearly

I loved you
dearly –
even the wrinkles upon your forehead
and the silence inbetween your words.

But whenever I talked,
you glared into this world,
you drifted away until my speech broke into pieces,
carrying the guilt upon my tongue –
why do I talk
when there is no one to listen.

Whenever I kissed you,
your spirit was far from mine
and your hands became stiff,
until my lips moved away –
why do we kiss
when there is nothing behind it.

I loved you
dearly.
But do I, still?

Jehona Thaqi©

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Sacred land

Sacred land;
where honey flows in rivers
and milk drips from trees, nourishing the earth with motherly love;
a land of dreams hidden underneath God’s veil,
where the wind brings peace
and where flowers sprout from deserts.

*

Women glaring at their trembling feet,
voices shivering, voices lost;
I haven’t heard my own voice in weeks
for my words have meant nothing;
soft skin, soft hearts,
bruised, but not aching anymore.

*

Men staring at our faces,
or underneath our skin;
for clothes do nothing but try to hide the flesh from hungry eyes;
harsh voices, harsh tongues,
its sound echoing throughout our shivering bodies,
invading more than our privacy.

*

Sacred land,
we are still fighting,
silently;
for what has always belonged to us.

Jehona Thaqi© our bodies, our decisions

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

Breathing

I can hear you breathe
heavily upon my skin,
with hands around these thighs
and feet unable to stand still.

I can hear you breathe
heavily upon my skin,
yet in this room I stand alone
but your hands are still at places they shouldn’t be.

I can hear you breathe
heavily upon my skin;
sometimes I forget who I am
and I forget who you have become.

I glare into the mirror,
and I can still hear you breathe
– heavily and tired.

I close my eyes,
now standing still,
and as your hands touch the ground
I think of your hopeless dreams
and living nightmares.

I wish you would stop –

breathing
.

I wish I could begin –

breathing

alone.

Jehona Thaqi©

Please share your thoughts and interpretation of this piece with me. I will be glad to share some of your thoughts. Contact: thaqi.jehona@hotmail.com

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

I forget

 Sometimes, I forget how to speak.

I forget the sound of my voice
and the clicking of my tongue;
I forget to breathe when I laugh 
and breath forgets me when I weep.

I forget that there are words to say
and I forget the words unsaid,
I forget the names of my friends,
and I forget that they have forgotten long ago.

I forget the things you have said
and I forget that you hate repeating yourself,
I forget that you loved me
and I forget that you forgot to tell me so.

Sometimes, I forget how to speak.

I have shed this skin of mine too often,
in order to forget the pain;
but I remember,
how difficult it is to forget.

Jehona Thaqi© [sunset in Zurich; Quai-bridge]

If

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If I could teach my tongue
new languages and new words,
or new stories to tell,
maybe poems or songs,
or something quite different
of which the world has never heared,
I would teach my tongue
the most wonderful of all.

It would make hearts shiver
and eyes glare
and ears listen carefully to its sound and melody.
Heads would turn
from as far as sight can reach
and souls would find ease
at its first note.

If I could teach my tongue
a very new language
it would be the one I have always envied,
the one I have dreamed of,
as madly as a woman can dream,
it would be the language of silence,
for the reasons are clear.

How often have I talked
and written and composed
and sung
the most beautiful words that came to my mind,
until they became dull and lifeless
and somehow unreal.
If I could teach my tongue
a new language
I would tell you all the things
my words were incapable of.

Jehona Thaqi©

Promises

Do we still
forgive
if we have not forgotten?

All the shattered promises
that left your lips too often,
each time the same expression;
you are sorry, you say –
and the next time you promise
it will not happen again.

The words lie upon your tongue,
ready to leave your mouth whenever required,
those empty promises
that I still try to believe in.

You touch my face,
your rough hands caressing my pale skin,
each time the same expression;
you are sorry, you say –
and it will not happen again,
but your hands keep moving upon my skin; shamelessly.

So tell me,

Do we still
forgive
if we can not forget?

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.

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