Saturday, April 1, 2023



Impression Of Height


  Here so high

  the clouds stay down,

           and the birds,

                    and the earth,

                            and people.


  In the heights of the sky

  surprisingly not even the gods wait for you

                    nor the saints

                           nor the souls

                                  nor the aliens.

  Blue and only blue

                    whiteness and only whiteness.


  This rare harmony disrupted by noises of planes

  suddenly awaking a beam of lightning,

  perhaps Zeus stirred the heavens

                            seeing us somewhere

                                             up there

                                                           even higher


  Above people

            Above the ground

                    Above the birds

                           Above the clouds

                                 Above the skies...




 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.


Parallel World


Your story is certainly not a tale,

fairy tales do not exist after all.

Your story obviously cannot resemble mine

as we came from two different planets into this world.


You from the West

I from the declining East


My story is certainly not a tragedy

given I’m still alive.

My story had and had not a Christ,

dictators there, became the Gods themselves.




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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