A letter to my unborn son

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Tonight I watched the full moon
from the open window of my room
and it made me think of you.

If we shall meet,
I will hold your body so close to mine
even if you grow up to be a man
two times my size,
I will clench my hands around your skin
and whisper
it is okay.
Do not be ashamed,
ashamed shall be the one who has made your knuckles bleed,
and the one who has made your voice quiver;
tears are no sign of weakness,
my boy,
they are signs of life.
Weep if you need to,
your mother will be here to listen
while healing your scars with love from a mother’s bleeding heart.

My son,
if we shall meet one day
I will tell you this:
your soul is the reflection of the moon
so full and radiant amongst the sky,
and as calm as my heart tonight.
And if the world tries to make you harsh
you will come running to your mother,
for I will hold your soft hands
and tell you stories of the times I almost became what the world wanted me to be.
You will seek shelter underneath my love,
and I will give to you all I have,
from soul to soul,
I will tell you
to be man enough to be
soft.

Jehona Thaqi©

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Privileged tears

The weather has been good, lately,
you say,
while the shy sun enters our home,
frankly, the weather has been good,
but so have we, for the last few years,
and I say years,
for I do not remember the last tear you have shed.

You leave for work,
kissing me goodbye, like within the movies, swiftly, yet lovely,
and I watch you leave as the sun rises,
until you disapear within the bright light of this morning.

The weather has been good, lately,
I think,
while washing the dishes,
and so have we, for the last few years,
yes, years,
for I do not remember the last time you cried.

Tears fall down the sink,
I like to call them my privileged tears;
the weather has been good, lately,
and there is nothing to worry about,
we have been good, too,
for you have not cried in years,
and I have neither,
only on mornings that shone too brightly
against the façade of our home.

Jehona Thaqi©

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

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 ©

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 for 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 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©

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 he 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 he 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

Only a woman

You thought I was only a woman,

but you forgot the strength

that flows through my veins and rushes throughout my body,

with bones of steel and healing skin,

for scars tend to grow stronger each time you cut

through women like me;

merely women –

whose strength you tought you had buried 

with breaking their souls.

You thought I was only a woman,

but you forgot whose hands have raised you

and whose love has nourished the seeds of the man you are today;

do you remember who held you

when your soul ached and your voice shivered,

she, too, is a woman,

who you considered less

the more she gave to you.

You thought I was only a woman,

but you forgot that I am a raging sea,

calm – just before the storm arrives;

but powerful and unapologetic when it comes to being

only

a woman.

Jehona Thaqi© [my drawing of the albanian singer Era Istrefi; https://www.instagram.com/strefie/ ]

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

Patience

It was a late night in a quiet city,
the winter-breeze dancing around the façade of our house

which was enlightened by the mellow moon-shine

and covered in freshly fallen snow.

I waited;

the candle-light flickered upon the silverware and wine glasses,

until the candles burned out;

and the light diminished upon a table full of things you loved to eat.

I waited;

sitting on the couch you had bought for us,

wearing the dress you loved,

all black upon my pale skin;

my eyes fixed on the clock,

my ears listening to the silence that seemed so violent within this small house,

my hands pressed upon my thighs,

agressively; in order to stay awake.

I waited;

you said you would be there,

as you did so often;

and when you could not make it,

you laughed, charmingly;

sometimes we make mistakes

you would say and kiss me on my forehead

and I would laugh, too;

the table still arranged,

it is alright, love.

I waited; 

but you did not come

until the first sun-rays shone through the curtains,

you laughed, and kissed me on my forehead,

the dress still upon my pale skin,

I laughed, too,

and left.

I had waited

too long.

Jehona Thaqi© (my drawing of Nera Z., you can follow her on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/nera.z/ )