Untitled III

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I despise sweet words,
mellow talking,
tender tongues.
Everything so sweet and lovely,
and innocent as a baby’s first cry.
Unreal, somehow.
Scary.

Jehona Thaqi © unfinished

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Finish line

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I have turned page after page
impatiently looking for an end,
as if the magic happening inbetween
the first and the last page
did not matter at all.

I tried to run as fast as I could,
saw the finish line more than once,
like a fatamorgana, so close,
yet so unreal.

Eventually I stopped.
I looked around, saw this gray world
giving birth to colourful explosions.
Sometimes, I realized,
it is not about who reaches the end first,
but who enjoys every inch of this almost endless run.

Jehona Thaqi©

Dust

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I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
with stories hidden underneath the veil of this evening’s dust.

I cleared my eyes,
as the colours seemed fading from the surface of everything
I looked at.
Maybe, I thought, it is the dust layered upon my eyes.

People stared at me,
as if they had never seen someone weep,
as if I was guilty for feeling sorrow.

I walked through these streets
full of unkown faces
and hungry souls, wondering how to feed their stomach with gossip and heavy words.

These streets are so full
of unkown faces,
but empty hearts.

Jehona Thaqi © I will still cry my heart out if I need to

A play of words

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I used to hide
within

a paragraph
or two.

In between letters,
words,
books,
bookshelves,
somewhere only people
with the intention of caressing every
page of mine would put their hands on.

I didn’t want to become

a paragraph
or two.

I have always been much more.
An unfinished story,
with the capacity of becoming a whole

library

formed of

a paragraph
or two.

Jehona Thaqi©

Light

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With light comes truth, they said,
deeply moved by a metaphor
stained with dark shadows.

I have found the truth in darkness,
just before the dawn arrives and
the dew starts falling drop after drop
onto this earth.
In darkness I learned how to
use my tongue properly,
how to see through the walls in front of people’s hearts,
how to distinguish the truth in their statements and
how to touch their souls without leaving fingerprints.
It wasn’t the light which made me see,
rather the comfort of darkness in which the heart finds rest.

With light comes truth, they said.
With light come shadows, I say,
looking for raw souls inbetween the last sunrays and the first twittering of birds in the mornings.

Jehona Thaqi©

Hope

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Somewhere inbetween her soft voice
and angelic laughter,
within her blushing cheeks, as tender and sweet as strawberries freshly plucked out of grandmother’s garden,
in the depth of her eyes in which men got lost like desperate love-letters adressed to the wrong person.
There, within that magical and bruised heart, she had handed out too often,
there lied that childish hope
of eternal love.
She clinged to it through every heart-break,
through tears, shatters and scars,
and yet she smiled,
because she knew that
her heart was soft enough to love again,
and strong enough to fall again.

Jehona Thaqi © if only men knew how strong women are