The Flowers Of Montesquieu Street
Flowers at the
foot of tall walls
they smile shyly
at the midday sun
the wonderful
flowers of Montesquieu Street
they greet some
gray-haired passersby
in that absolute
silence, absence of sound
the solitary
Muses of wordless poetry
no dog, no cat,
no breath around
cars rushing on
paranoid rampage.
There is no time
for meditation, there is no time for anything
just for
fleeing, blind escape from everything,
not even for
those, the fragile, dressed in March colors
flowers of
Montesquieu Street.
I stopped my
step, I felt the scent in my soul
as well as the
pentagram of peace.
How I would love
to share it with the world
to plant them on
the noisy scrap metal
turned into a
giant walking vase,
endless flowers,
to bring white seasons...!
(Translation Into
English: HR)
I Love The Word…
I've loved the
word,
from the first
word, the second, the billionth, I do not know
The word I
speak,
the word that
speaks to me daily in my conscience
And again, and
again its essence drags me closer and away from it,
Like now, in my
ruined Babylon.
I seek
dictionaries, perhaps before Christ
to translate the
word of the self-undeciphered
I’m looking for
the key code to open the doors
Where it sleeps,
where it hides, and why I have to confess
Like on Sunday
the sinner, repents in the church.
To light the
candle and pray under peaceful sounds
that climb the
part of the atmosphere that carries my word,
that touch the
sky, illuminate the stars with magic.
To leave them
awake, like Venus my Guardian Angel
that with a word
awakened me, the first night of my life…
With the first
word “welcome” to this world.
That was the
first word I saw, I swear
And I cried,
why, I don’t know, out of emotion or out of pain
for the world of
words where I would take cautious steps.
Like a chess
game with kings and soldiers
In which of
course I would like to be queen
But without
killing anyone, is there such a thing?!
They say the
word kills, would my word kill? or,
would it be like
a blessing that heals the soul?
Would it be a
curse, absinth, vile, or
Holy Mary?!
The word like a
Da Vinci painting hides the codes from me.
No, it’s not
abstract painting, it’s not my
favorite anyway.
Know that the
word is only code, like a computer
Where even
artificial intelligence can’t find it
Hidden among the
blood streams
In the most
beautiful and precious picture in the world
In the symbiosis
of a perfect creation
Where the heart
and poetry intertwine with thousands of
colors.
My word sleeps
and wakes, until the last beat
I will tell it
with care, with the word, without word…
Thank you for
waking me.
(Translation Into
English : A.Xh)
A Little Breath Of Camus
I have been
sculpting myself for a long time,
perhaps I was
born by gift of the gods
Vertically-horizontally
I make a cross
and wait for the completion of the work
which has no end
and no beginning.
Somewhere,
sometimes I blow the dust of the absurd
detach my
perfection from the secular gravitation
to resemble the
rest of the sky that we never understood.
In my
"workshop".
I am already
sculpting myself without pain
Imaginary
metamorphosed.
I find myself a
stranger every day
except for the
smile I recognise in my eyes
(Translation Into
English : A.Xh)
MIRELA LEKA XHAVA
MIRELA LEKA XHAVA, was born, in the
city of Elbasan, Albania. She graduated
in Albanian Language and Literature and worked as a Librarian at the University
of the city. She also collaborated as a correspondent for the newspaper "Elbasani".
In the end of the year 1999 her first book "I do not love winter in the
eye" was published. She has published poetry in several national and
international literary magazines recently. She also participated in several
contests and anthologies and received different evaluations positives. At the
same time he deals with translations from French for several literary magazines
in Albania. In September of this year,
her last book of poems "Flowers of the Montesquieu Street" was
published. Lives and works in Bordeaux -France with her family since 2002.
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