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©

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Light bulbs

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Lamps hangig from ceilings
like dead bodies,
glowing with utter boredom,
so still and lifeless,
yet there for the reason when dusk arrives,
until dawn is welcomed.

Dead bodies hangig from ceilings,
like lamps,
moving with the tension of our minds,
so lifeless yet not still;
most when the moon shines bright
but no lights are burning in our homes.

Broken light bulbs like broken souls,
replaced by brighter and greater ones,
with few pennies and little effort.
But have you forgotten
the dead bodies
hangig from ceilings
like lamps?

Have you forgotten the broken light within souls
that needs not to be hanged
in order to shine.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Immigrant’s child

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I once asked my mother
why people called me foreign,
why my accent was different from theirs,
why my tongue did not sleep quiet upon this language.
I asked her
why they were surprised that I did well in school,
why they always asked for the meaning of my name,
why it did not echo through their minds
that I was the same as them.
I was human.
I was a child.

“Jehonë”, she said,
caressing my golden-brown hair with the
softness only her hands knew,
“This is not our home.”
I did not understand.

How could it not be our home,
whilst I slept there,
and grew there,
and was forced to understand there.
How could it not be our home,
when I ate the same things as them,
watched movies just like them,
looked just like them.
How could it not be our home,
when my teacher had taught me that we were all offsprings of Adam and Eve.

I asked my mother where home was
and she cried, oh, how she cried.
The tears drowned her soft cheeks,
she looked different,
but lovely as always.

“Jehonë”, she said,
“home is far from here, in a hidden place, small but wonderful, rich in humanity. They even speak our language, there.”

“Pse nuk shkojmë në shtëpi, Nënë?”, I asked,
wondering what home meant.

You see, I was torn between a foreign land called home, and a home that called me foreign.
I never understood where I belonged.
And even today, I still wonder
where home is.

Jehona Thaqi © Why don’t we go home, mother? [Jehonë means echo in Albanian]

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

If not today

If not today

will you ever see the beauty

in breaking hearts and growing hopes,

will you recognize the eyes of your lovers

underneath the haze of a full-moon’s night,

will you witness the movement of lustfull mouths

and hungry teeth.

I watch you sleep, hands pressed against each other,

angelic face, pale skin, 

you seem weaker at night;

for you lose your weapons,

tounges tied and fists softened.

Today

you called me insane for the way I love,

but have you forgotten that there is nothing sane about loving until you burst,

have you forgotten the letters I have written,

all threehundredandeightynine,

have you forgotten my shaking body on the ground,

have you forgotten yourself, walking away with anger in your face;

you say I am insane, 

but is there sanity in hurting what has not meant to be hurt.

I watch you sleep,

for it makes me think that you are fine,

and it makes me believe that I am fine, too;

your eyes closed, your mouth silent,

I forget the words you screamed and the names you called me,

you look inocent and lovely.

I wonder,

if not today,

will you ever see beyond the body that holds me,

will you understand the roots of my words

and the meaning of my silence.

If not today,

will you ever love,

insanely and honest,

and will you heal

what you broke

within me.

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]

Cigarette

Today I smoked a cigarette,

the one you used to smoke when your heart was aching,

hoping that it would calm my heart, too;

but the poison filled my lungs and I coughed and grasped for air,

lost within the smoke of my very first cigarette.

I pressed it softly against my small lips,

and in agony of breaking it, I inhaled slowly;

I did not know how to hold it,

just like I never knew how to hold your hands,

maybe I should not have held you too tightly, 

I think today, 

while smoking my very first cigarette.

At the end of it, it does not taste too bad,

the slight burning at the end of my throat feels familiar,

just like your words,

or the lack of them,

for even now, I do not know which was worse,

when you did not talk and left me restless at night,

or when your words burried my tongue and left me speechless.

My very first cigarette comes to an end,

and I watch the sun set underneath the clouds,

sad and lonely I shut my eyes,

how good it would be if you remembered me,

the way you never forget your cigarette.

Jehona Thaqi©

I took this picture from my kitchen window, in sad and lonely hours. Loneliness can be a devastating war inbetween the heart and mind of an individual. 

Impressions of Zurich

Eventhough I was born and raised in a small city near Zurich, I profoundly enjoy taking photographs of the beautiful corners of this quiet place. Zurich is one of the most amazing places I have ever been to; everything seems to be perfectly arranged, with little twists of flaws and imperfections.

As you walk across the Quai-bridge – the wind softly humming into your ears; you will fall in love with the small boats and the turquoise sea. To make the view even greater your eyes will soon capture the amazing buildings at the beginning of the most expensive district in Zurich. I am overly obsessed with the architecture within this city! 

Walking across these streets each day makes me sometimes forget to see the beauty within them. I have to remind myself how overly privileged I am to be living in this country, especially here in Zurich. As the child of two immigrants, who flew from poverty and political instabilities, I feel a strong connection towards this place. It has been the place that gave my parents the opportunity to live – in its full meaning, and gave me the opportunity to educate myself.

This city has made me grow, maybe it is a further reason of why I love it so much.

One of the sweetest things in Zurich are the trams in the center of the city. No cars, no buses, no trains, only the trams that will surely bring you to the right place at the right time. And yes; Swiss people are extremely punctual.

But there is another thing that I strongly admire about this city: art. Where ever your eyes wander, I am sure that they will capture art in a variety of forms. Maybe one day I will be part of the displayed art in this wonderful city.

Have you ever been to Zurich? And if so, what is your greatest memory of it?

Jehona Thaqi© all rights reserved

Ghost city

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City of ghosts
where the visitors are leaving, but leaving no marks,
dancing around these streets,
nourishing their empty stomachs with love.
This city is left hungry, yet not starving.

Suddenly there are no vistors at all;
like forgotten grave yards
somewhere inbetween the hills of empty lands
the street lamps flicker against the softly shinig moon.

A ghost city,
heart of mine,
forgotten,
yet untouched.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dear

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Dear
         you have been my greatest burden,
who turned my tongue into stone
and my words into concrete,
leaving my speech too heavy to be understood.

You have built walls out of shame,
and left dreams tumbling down,
as women need no homes for themselves,
but need to seek shelter underneath men’s fists.

You told me that women are best when quiet,
and if they talk, they will not be heared.
You told me that there are words women can not speak,
and if they do, they will be heared.

In a world full of hungry men and starving women,
I lost the balance of who I was
and who I should be.
When I weep, you say I will be fine,
as seeking help is shameful,
and every other woman cries sometimes, but does not complain.

Dear Self,
you had the audacity to say
breathe
while standing on my throat;
but today I am speaking.

Maybe you will hear my suffocating pain somewhere inbetween a world of lies and pure souls.

Jehona Thaqi©