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

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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©

Oblivious

I was oblivious of life;
for too many heart-breaks had marked my body,
and I speak of the heart-breaks of a woman; a warrior,
who protected her soul with silence
but whose silence has been broken by understanding
that a woman’s tongue will not be tied to the dreams of men.

I was oblivious of happiness,
for too many tears had drowned my laughter,
the tears of a losing warrior,
but war will not be over unless this soul flees my body,
and even then, when I rest underneath the earth,
I will leave the tomb as dust 
and remind you of the power a woman carries within;
a woman who has been opressed
but never silenced.

I was oblivious of my strength,
the strenght of a woman;
I was a prisoner to my fears,
but today I will destroy the chains tied among my soul,
I will be free,
and concious of everything I have.

Jehona Thaqi©

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©

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©

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 disappear 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©

This is no love poem

This is no love poem;
I wrote this
to remind myself that this heart of mine
has not been aching since forever,
to remind myself that your leaving
has not taken love along its side.

How often you have told me
that I was too young to love as much as I pretended
and how long I tried to convince you
that the older I got, the less I could remember the taste of sweetness upon your lips,
the less I remembered the fear of losing
and the fear of forever.

You see; today I woke up
drenched in dreams of things that never were mine;
hollow heart and no thoughts at all,
as if all we had lived through had been merely dreams.

Some people abuse drugs,
I abused love;
so much so that I became addicted to your recognition,
I craved your arms;
first only at night,
then every second of my days.

If only I had been weak enough to give up,
maybe I’d be lying next to other rotting bodies;
to addicts of all-kinds,
until the sickness of love had reduced my bones to dust.

This is no love poem,
but I wish it was.

Jehona Thaqi© (selfportrait)

Do not cry, my boy

Dearest son; 

you are the greatest gift of all,

despite sleepless nights

and the times you cry 

– seemingly without reason; 

or reasons I do yet not understand,

when I feel so helpless and sad

and my silent tears fall upon your soft cheeks.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is holding you tight

to the body that suddenly became strong;

within the arms that do not hide behind the back anymore;

caressing your head with the finger that once danced upon falling hopes.

Do not cry, my boy,

for your mother is here to protect you,

the way you protect your mother from sorrow and heart break; 

you – this small little boy – are the greatest gift of all,

and if this world falls apart

and all my hopes are shattered,

I will hold on to the memories we are creating.

Do not cry, my boy;

but if you do,

even fifty years from now,

come running to your mother

so I can hold you

and mend your soft beating heart.

– Jehona Thaqi© I love you Noar