Mirela Leka Xhava (Albania-France)
Shewasborn in Elbasan, Albania.
Having been passionate about literaturesincechildhood, sheis a graduate of AlbanianLanguage and Literature at the University "Aleksander Xhuvani" of Elbasan and isregularlypublished in variousjournals and newspapers. Until 2002, beforeemigrating to France, sheworked as a librarian at the city’sUniversity Library, whereshewas a member of the Elbasan Writers' Union. Herpoems are published in prestigious magazines and newspapers in Albania, Kosovo, England, Canada, Belgium, Bangladesh, Tunisia, Romania, the DominicanRepublic, Italy and France, including on online literary sites.
Sheis active in literary salons and exhibitions in France, as in ContemporaryLiterature, whereshe won the HonoraryDiploma of the 24th Spring of the Poets of Sartrouville, France. She'spublished in the literary journal Poetswithoutborders "Florilège" of Dijon, in the Canadian LiteraryAnthology of Poetry for the Protection of Children: "Ethics and Global Education", as well as in the International Anthology of Poets for Peace in Tunisia, "The window of Paris" volume 2. Shewasalso a finalist at the Mediterranean Poetry Festival in Rome in 2022.
Shecurrentlylives and works in Bordeaux, France.
Literary Works:
"I don’twant Winter in myeyes"/"S'e duadimrinnësy", 1999 (Poetry)
"Les fleurs de la rue Montesquieu"/"Lulet e rrugës Montesquieu" ("The flowers of Montesquieux Street"), 2022 in Albanian/French from the publishing house "ADA"Tirana.
POEMS
Silence
Silence inside the crater, deafening
speakswithout a sound
as in a dream the cry of silence is not heard
within the solitude of the greatforming
of the sinking and rising chaos.
Silence listensbetween the cosmic stones
and withinitprojects the bridge upon the sighs
for some light beyond the darkness
sows a strongheartwithtwine
for a new world out there
after the icemelts
silence willspeak...
🌼
Fingers of the wind at night
(A LittleBreath of Edgar Poe)
Fingers of the wind,
hesitantlyknock on the window in the night
sometimesscary and sometimesanxious
outside the gates chaos envelops time
without stars,
withoutmoon,
so much so that youthink that the wind cannot bring good news.
Out of sadness, asks for morning to come quickly
and thenmay the windblowfreely
but the night is long and at everytick
togetherwith the wind composes a lullaby.
Night,
wind,
seconds,
walktogether
and the wordsthat the daygatheredthroughwalls of teeth
at night the fingers of the windscatterthem.
to not bringanyunwanted news...
🌼
Morning will wake them up again
(to the children, victims of the earthquake in Turkey-Syria.)
Morning will come again
The moon will hide away in tears
watering the flowers that on beams of collapsed walls will sprout.
The sun will grow them without their chaste smile
and twilight willl eave them sad.
Earth will feel guilty
maybe even more than the Gods
over them, the innocent children
who know death before it comes
thinking that morning
in mother'sarms
will wake them up again...
🌼
The streets that wore my shoes
The streets that wore my shoes
left me barefoot
I don't know if it is so I follow them.
Unnder the foot, footprints,
under the footprints, a song,
under the song, words
under the word, a Babel
and further,
a Noah'sarkdescending to earth
dry
wet tracks towards a long walk.
Where gods wake and die
in the twilight of suns.
And I follow my paths bleeding
I fall and rise even though...
the streets that wore my shoes
left me barefoot.
Also published there https://homouniversalisgr.blogspot.com/
