Flowers / Lule

I used to pluck flowers
for you
while my white dress
shone bright in spring’s light
and as I danced
so carelessly,
upon freshly watered grass,
you watched from our window
and cried
for all the flowers
gone too soon.

I used to pluck flowers
for you
while you listened to the radio,
wondeing how many fathers had already fallen,
how many mothers were raped
and how many children were left homeless.

I used to pluck flowers
for you
father,
but you never put them in a vase,
like the fathers of my friends.

It is only now,
father,
that I understand
why you never cherished
flowers.

For they reminded you
of our people’s graves.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
ndërsa fustani im i bardhë
shkëlqente në dritën e diellit pranveror;
dhe ndërsa kërceja,
me shumë pakujdesi
mbi barin e ujitur,
më shikoje nga dritarja jonë
dhe të pikonte loti
për të gjitha lulet
e këputura.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
ndërsa ti ndëgjoje radion
dhe e pyesje veten
se sa baballarë kishin vdekur tashmë,
sa nëna u përdhunuan,
dhe sa fëmijë kishin mbetur jetimë.

Unë dikur këpusja lule
për ty
baba,
por ti kurrë nuk i vendose ato në vazo, si baballarët e miqve të mi.

Por tani,
baba,
unë e kuptova
përse nuk i ke dashur kurrë lulet qe i këpusja.

Ato të kujtonin varrezat
e popullit tonë.

Jehona Thaqi©

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War

image

My body collapses,
like buildings these days,
over the dead body of my sister.
Her skin still soft, still warm,
her hair caressing her round face
and closed eyes,
as beautiful as the first day I held her in my arms.
Maybe death is her blessing,
I think, crying the tears of my people,
maybe her heart is at rest now.

My neighbour died today,
I saw his blood painted over the ruins of this town,
I saw his five years old son crying,
lying next to him, holding his hand.
Take me with you, he said,
how could you leave me here in hell.
I walk away, my eyes ache
seeing all these broken spirits.
All these crying children.

I talked to an officer today,
his satanic smile made me want to rip his face off.
Yet, I thought, death would be to much
of a blessing for this man.
He shot my sister,
cold hearted, without hesitation.
He shot my sister,
her small body falling to the ground,
her eyes searching for mine for the last time,
as if to say goodbye, as if to say I made it.
He shot my sister, our sister.

Weeping upon her body,
holding her small hands that slowly turn cold and stiff.
I will visit you soon, I say,
and I will take care of you then, dear sister.

Jehona Thaqi © the picture is not mine