Wednesday, June 1, 2022





Nothing Changes


 In an old film, the tape trembles

 curious people, motionless without knowing why

 incoherent in the displayed magic

 to say to the next century;

 this was me, your ancestor in the old Paris,

 this was me, immigrant with torn hats

 selling from newspapers to flowers carts,

 this was me, Madame de la "Belle Epoque" *

 this was me, pampered child in the Jardin de Tuileries *

 I was, he was, you were this moment

 tomorrow's imagination

 wiped by Sahara’s sirocco

 centuries, blown away with the clouds,

 charged with rains, destructive hurricanes

 to give way

 Time after time to a sunrise....

Which smiled upon someone,

 Which dried someone’s unsowed bread.

 and so unknowingly entering

 in an old black and white film

 remaining in vintage*

 Only a few brushstrokes, added on celluloid,

 nothing changes, people come and go

 an echo of voices, faint, distant,

 for each new century, new century, new century...




 Pain falls from the heavens

 like stone blocks of marble

unfinished sculptures of deities

 from the wars of Mars in the fragile season

 Petals, their faces washed at dawn with the dew

 Dusk flies with the wind.

 Hands raised,

 dubious game of gods.

 The deities seated on thrones, no legs, no hands

 sculptures in anticipation of another form,

 cloning of the human, to freeze their smile

 Pain falls from the heavens

 the next day will be of marble, gray

 Gods people

 People Gods.




 In sandy fists I squeeze the memories

 choked between fingers, seek to flee,

 I let go slowly for the wind to take them

 as the ashes of the light flying body

 burned in the middle of the sea in the pile of wood

 scattered pieces high in the sky

 half erased by time, half by me.


 The shore whispers a few words, a few verses

 and the breeze in the distant echo brings me back

 the sun beyond the horizon in the sea is bathing

 and the twilight in the evening turns it

 forgotten regret, regret left here on shore.


 The weary heart speaks only with the moon

 and the moon speaks to the sea all night

 familiar whispers they seem to me

 Sighs maybe, there I go mind empty

 A salty tear runs down my cheek.




MIRELA LEKA XHAVA (French-Albanian). Born in the city of Elbasan - Albania, in 1966. In love with literature since childhood, has published from time to time in magazines and newspapers before the 90s and then in the newspaper “Free speech", as a correspondent for several years, publishing essays and poetry. In the meantime, she continued her higher studies and graduated in Albanian Language and Literature at the University of Elbasan.  In 2000 she published her first book of poetry "I do not want winter in my eyes". She is a Member of the Writers' League of the city. Until 2002, before emigrating to France, she worked as a Librarian at the University Library of Elbasan. Lives and works in France for twenty years and has French citizenship. Returning in recent years to her passion, poetry, she periodically publishes poetry cycles in the well-known international literary magazine Atunis Galaxy Poetry in Belgium, as well as in several prestigious magazines and newspapers in Albania, Kosovo, England, Canada, Bangladesh, Tunisia, Republic Dominican, Romanian etc. also on French literary sites. Active in salons and literary fairs in France. Has earned an Honorary Diploma in 24th Printemps des Poètes -Sartrouville France. Poems published in the literary magazine Poets Without Borders "Florilege" -Dijon. Published in the Canadian Literary Poetry Anthology "Éthique Et Education Globale". Participant in the International Anthology of Poets for Peace (her poem presented in French) -Tunisia. Also in the Anthology "La fenêtre de Paris" vol.2 (poetry in English).She also translates into French for literary magazines and newspapers in Albania. She is in the process of preparing for publication within this year, of a new poetic volume.

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