Thursday, December 1, 2022



Munch's Scream

  (Referring to the painting "The Scream E.Munch 1893)


  Tell me when inside your soul you don't scream so loud

  as if he were to go outside

  the sky would tear

  And like lightning it would fall and break the rocks.


  Lord, you created Pandora to keep evil locked

  This eternal self-defense anxiety

  that haunts us for thousands of years.


  But our inner calls

  are broken phones,

  fall on deaf ears

  they are not audible so they are not quantum

  my existentialism within myself I cry loudly

  Close your eyes and i see...




Imaginations Of Childhood


  That patch of paint peeling off the wall

  scraped to the core to see the layers

  to enter as Alice in Wonderland

  to visit every detail, an era

  "Retro" spoke to me, this roof, this room,

  once painted in red *burgundy.


  In front of my bed

  it was the tale of a thousand and one nights

  fantasy created crushed profile,

  sometimes it was enlarged like a park labyrinth

  chipped piece of paint,

  to penetrate the past.


  It became a map,

  It became a road,

  She became a suitcase,

  It became an escape

  unknown directions.

  It was childhood...


  Someone painted the face of the wall one day;

  new colors covered it,

  a layer further beyond imagination,

  nothing spoke to me anymore,

  no one was waiting for me.

  The cradle is small

  when you grow up...


  *burgundy-dark red


Waiting For Godot

  (Referring to the play of the same title by Samuel Beckett)


  In the space of our time

  in the daily repetitions of our states and actions

  in the journeys within and outside oneself

  definitely wear invisible torn shoes made of flesh and bone.

  legs tired from imaginary comings and goings

  and a mirror image in rhetoric

  question and answer



  Eyes waiting for the sun to return after the rain

  after winter spring

  the day after yesterday and today

  for tomorrow Sisyphus will be happy along the descent

  at the boiling point of happiness with the absurd.


  Hour-time of the air, elusive, unstoppable

  that drags you down the defined path

  from A to B

  from birth to flight,

  where extinction is the last truth of a false linear

  lost in the fog along with hope.

  Absurd theater of life

  where Godoja will never come

  because he is there...waiting for us...

  beyond faith and unbelief

  Existence and non-existence.




MIRELA LEKA XHAVA: (Albanian-French) 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 She 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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