Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020

2 authors ... p. 2
editorial ... p. 3
poetry ... p. 6
prose ... p. 33
essay ... p. 41
confabulation ... p. 44
2 authors ... p. 47

2 Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, 2020, October
TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE
ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198
2
Gabriela Mimi Boroianu
Romania
Autodafé
Die Kerzen schmolzen
und sie strömten auf meinen Körper
von dir ausgezogen
Und das Licht drang in mich
bis Jenseits der Stille,
und das phosphoreszierende Blut
ging durch die Nacht wie ein Schrei vorbei...
Jenseits des Lebensendes
eine Seele
sucht ihre Flügel;
In meinen Wunden
wachsen Feder...
Warte auf mich an den
Toren des Traums,
damit wir zusammen
fliegen.
Arderi
S-au topit lumânările
și-au curs pe trupul meu
despuiat de tine,
Și m-a pătruns lumina
până dincolo de tăceri,
iar sângele fosforescent
a trecut prin noapte ca un țipăt...
Dincolo de marginea vieții
un suflet
își caută perechea de aripi;
În rănile mele cresc pene...
Așteptă-mă la porțile visului,
să zburăm împreună.
Vladanka Cvetković
Serbia
Hemija osećanja
Nebo je boje limenog cinka.
Moja osćanja nevoljna
u obelodanjivanju
svoje hemijske strukture.
Uostalom, kako se mere osćanja?
Epruvetom? Pipetom? Vagicom?
Sreću nosih kao
oreol,
ali ljubav je
bezbojna,
nestalna tečnost.
Naši povremeni
pogledi
nosili su mnoga značenja.
Iskrice su sevale
pržeći poslednje presne
komade razuma.
Tvoja emocija bila je
jednostavno osećanje i
nije tražila suvišno objašnjenje.
Ja sam secirala osećanja.
Sada tišina pada na nas
iskreći srebrnastom srćom
koja preti da nas povredi.
Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, 2020, October
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year I, no. 4, 2020, October
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editorial 3-4
Paul Rotaru
Romania
Music and substance
The concept of absolute silence is neither
an utopia nor an ideal itself, but a way of
abstractization of all our notions of sound. If
you ask someone when was the last time they
listened to the voice of the stars, you might be
answered: either never or that voice doesnʼt
exist. And yet, the voice of the
stars does exist; we hear it
whenever we search a channel
on the radio and it is that mix of
waves that sometimes disturbs
us before reaching the desired
channel. Earth has its voice,
too; its very low sound
vibration is indistinguishable
to our ears and that is why we
are unaware of it. Sound is one
of the primary factors which
influenced the settlement of
the world and universe in the
order we see nowadays; it
determines the physicl, mental and behavioral
development of all living beings; it organizes
the internal and external structure of any
matter, system and group.
Pinching a guitar chord creates a vibration
that we realize as being sound. The same way,
humans have the ability to create sound by
their biological constitution; more precisely,
they have the capacity to create a unic sound
vibration and that is called voice. The vocal
print of any human – and animal – is unique, it
has its own wavelenght and it canʼt be met
anywhere else around. That being said, we can
appreciate that two violins do not sound
egually when tested with high precision
devices.
Man, guided by the need to understand the
sound, established some frequency categories
named ranges. The ranges are disposed by the
vertical infinity rule and they relay their origin
over and over in octaves. The becar,
chromatic, harmonic or arpeggio progression
of any sequence of notes is a tendency of
returning to origin; it becomes valid and
controllable only within the limits of this
conventional interval. Nevertheless, as seven
musical notes were enough to create the
diversity of works of which we
are aware, the return to origin
on a higher plane of the sound
vibration strives to an
enlargement of its horizon. The
flexibility of the matter leaves
us with countless miracles at
hand; it allows us the
adjustment of all the things we
use on infinite frequencies.
When two musical instruments
from different categories meet
on the same wavelength, they
form a chord. Several chords on
different frequencies form
harmony. The notion of absolute sound in
terms of musical instruments is still a topic
under discussion today. When we ask the
violinist to reproduce the note Fa, we must
also take into account the squeak resulting
from rubbing the bow on the string, a sound
that is or is not the same as the note Fa.
Therefore, from the multitude of sounds that
surround us, we choose only the one that is the
object of our interest; but we never listen only
to the note, but to the set of notes.
At the same time, through repeated
exercises, man became able to recognize the
notes of sounds in nature without reproducing

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them on a musical instrument. For example,
Rachmaninoff had fun saying to a visiting
friend: ʼThe creaking of unconfined hinges is a
succession of Mi, Sol and Si, meaning a Mi
minor. You opened the door differently than
yesterday's visitor, who only gave me
dissonances!ʼ In the general chaos of all the
sounds in the universe there is a stable whole,
similar to the liquids in which the Brownian
motion takes place indefinitely. As long as
there is movement, there is also sound. One of
the most common postulates in physics and
chemistry is that, although nothing is lost but
everything is transformed, any substance
tends to a state with minimal energy and
maximum disorder. From this, the sound
vibration is a
substance in itself,
whose apogee is
extinction. Let's keep
in mind that any sound
is consumed much
later than the ear can
perceive. So we are
governed by sounds,
accompanied by them
beyond conscious boundaries.
In addition to a prelude by Chopin, we hear
the atmospheric movement, the urban noise,
and only our interest in the main factor, the
musical work, implies a harmonization of the
psyche with nature, with the world and with
the self. It is a psychic process similar to the
one in which, when you look at a painting, you
have the impression that at some point its
frame has disappeared. So, through the
exercise of attention and concentration, the
original point becomes conscious uniqueness,
and the whole becomes an unconscious
secondary plane. You don't see it, you don't
hear it, because your interest destroys the
secondary plan, but it is there permanently
and only the involuntary attention preserves it
in order to complete the original setting.
Through this exercise of attention and
concentration, you have the opportunity to
process any substance intellectually; as in
telekinesis: the stone does not rise, nor does
the spoon bend by itself, but the psyche rises
and bends under the influence of its own
flexibility! Thus, you have the illusion that the
substance undergoes the transformations that
you order, while it remains the same.
Music therapy - or sound therapy - has
existed since ancient times, as man has
understood that sound vibration is one of the
basic binders of all cells in a substance. The
production of sound vibrations aims to reduce
the intensity or even eliminate those already
existing at the place of
interest; in other
words, it aims to
restore an original
harmony that the cells
need in their
structure. Even when
we are silent, we make
sounds by breathing,
by heartbeat, by
swallowing. Therefore, the concept of absolute
silence is relatively even in a vacuum. There is
an invasion pressure around any vacuum
environment, just as a vacuum exerts a
conservation or explosion pressure, which of
course implies sound waves. We fool
ourselves into believing that we separate
ourselves from sounds when we are in
soundproof rooms; the shell itself produces
vibrations that drive away those from which
we have moved away. Even statues have their
vibrations, perceptible by specialized
measuring devices, vibrations that are
distinguished as follows: sound by moving
electrons at the atomic level, physico-chemical
by emitting radiation from the substance of
which it is composed and by arranging the

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magnetic field that surrounds all elements
existing in the environment.
The masters of music understood the
influence of sounds on matter better than we,
their humble listeners. For example, Haydn
composed works specifically for each newly
invented musical instrument; Mozart held a
glass of water on the piano, watching the
liquid bubbles play as they formed into well-
defined formations; Beethoven, during the
period of deafness, "listened" to the vibrations
of the piano with the help of a pencil fixed in
the ear, the opposite end of which placed it
close to the strings inside the
box.
The effect produced by
sounds on matter is also called
induced state. It is not the
lullaby that calms and puts the
child to sleep, but the mother's
voice, which the baby perceives
as a unique communication of
all emotional states, through
which he feels encouraged,
protected, transformed. We all
know that a sung word is
longer than when it is spoken,
which means that the pleasure
of listening to songs is a need of the psyche to
receive messages in a harmonious, organized
form. In other words, a message sent in the La
minor range will seem more lyrical, more
elegiac, regardless of its content. Also, songs
that start in Si flat major induce a state of
pessimistic meditation through serious
accents, even when the octave is played at an
acute level. Songs beginning in Do major
follow a primary harmonic alternation with
Sol major and Fa major; but, if, instead of Fa
major, we put Re minor or La minor, the
vibrational structure organizes the context
differently, allowing the multiplication of
emotional states. Thus, the instrumental
message may be different from the textual one,
whether the performer intends it or not.
There are opinions according to which,
originally, music was instrumental, in order to
invoke the beneficial forces of nature and to
repel the evil ones. For example, primitive
man struck a drum with a controlled
frequency and intensity to attract game. A
group of drummers could remove the tight
clouds over the village. By this they
understood a way of transmitting the message
to the divinity, to the superhuman spiritual
governor. But there are also
opinions that music was born
as a manifestation of their own
pain. For example, the first
sound a baby makes at birth is
crying; we can recognize it,
crying is a song of the pain that
the baby endures when leaving
the placenta, when it passes
from passive breathing,
through fluid, like aquatic
beings, to the mechanical,
pulmonary one. Few are aware
of how much effort and pain
the child endures to catch his
first breath. And from here begins the great
and only symphony of life; hence the deep
sufferings are first sung, then verbalized. Just
as dance is a form of manifestation of worship,
communion with the environment and even
sacred sexuality, so music is a form of
manifestation of our consciousness and
participation in the evolution of the whole.
Through music, man understood to convey
both the happiest and the darkest feelings.
Through a succession of notes, the psyche
notes the invisible and inherent evolution of
the universe.

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poetry 5-24
Ion Cuzuioc
Romania
***
azil în flăcări –
dintr-o odaie păpușa
rostind mama
***
pălăria tatei –
în pânza paingului
cuibul de molii
***
vrăbii în scrânciob –
datina strămoșească
legănată de vânt
***
roadele toamnei –
luna și soarele pe rând
în carul mare
***
daruri de Crăciun –
păianjenii țes pânze
la orfelinat
***
dor de moș Crăciun –
din curtea orfelinatului
plânset de păpuși
***
picuri de lacrimi –
copacul își petrece
ultima frunză
***
ninsoare în toi –
vecinii de peste drum
se bat cu pernele
***
târgul de Crăciun –
cu zdrențele în stradă
sperietoarea
***
Regina nopții –
îmbrobodită după
prima ninsoare
***
pe amurgite –
soarele spre orizont
cu dealul în spate
***
postul cel mare –
cerșetorul și porumbeii
din același colac
***
copilul orfan –
pe – o filă de hârtie
desenând chipul mamei
***
moștenire –
ocrotită de – un paing
icoana mamei

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***
pădure în flăcări –
plânsul puiului de cuc
înecat în fum
***
lacul fără pește –
paznicul de serviciu
dus cu pluta
***
pe prispa casei –
un scaun și o cârjă
doar amintire
***
surpriza nopții –
soțul de la cazino
în frunza Evei
***
vreme toridă –
căruțașul dormind
la umbra cailor
***
de gardă la muzeu –
lângă stative motanul
torcând în voie
***
pe ultimul drum –
în urma sicriului
florile călcate
Poemele de sorginte niponă (Haiku, Senryu și
Gogyohka) semnate de Ion Cuzuioc au fost traduse în
limbile japoneză, engleză, franceză, rusă.
S-a născut la 16 septembrie 1949 în familia
intelectualilor Valentina şi Pavel Cuzuioc din comuna
Ţareuca, judeţul Orhei, Republica Moldova. A absolvit
Universitatea de Stat de Medicină şi Farmacie ,,N.
Testemiţanu”. Eminent al Ocrotirii Sănătăţii.
Medic specialist Sănătatea Publică şi Managementul
Sanitar (categorie superioară). Distins cu Ordinul ,,Gloria
Muncii”și Medalia „Nicolae Milescu Spătarul”, Titluri
Onorifice: ,,Ambasador al Păcii (ONU) și „Ambasador al
Culturii Păcii”(Asociația Europeană a Societății Civile) ;
Distincţia ,,Coroana Păcii”(ONU); Premiul Uniunii
Scriitorilor din Moldova (2000), (2009), Uniunii
Ziariștilor Profesioniști din România
(2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019),
Premiul UNESCO şi numeroase premii
şi menţiuni la Saloane Internaționale
de Carte, Concursuri și Festivaluri
Literare Naţionale şi Internaţionale.
Cetăţean de Onoare al comunei
Ţareuca, Rezina, Orhei. Membru al
Uniunii Epigramiştilor, Uniunii
Scriitorilor și Uniunii Ziariștilor
Profesioniști din România. Membru al
Uniunii Cineaştilor, Uniunii
Umoriştilor, Uniunii Epigramiștilor,
Uniunii Jurnaliştilor şi Uniunii
Scriitorilor din Moldova. Membru al
Asociației Naționale a Oamenilor de
Creație din Moldova.
Membru al Senatului Asociației
Oamenilor de Știință, Cultură și Artă din Moldova.
Membru al Confederaţiei Internaţionale a Cineaştilor,
Membru al Federaţiei Internaţionale a Jurnaliştilor.
Membru al Asociației Canadiene a Scriitorilor Români.
Membru al Academiei Româno-Australiană.
Membru al Academiei Națiunii Române.
A editat peste 40 de cărţi de epigrame, aforisme,
proză (romane, nuvele, poveşti şi povestiri pentru copii,
schiţe umoristice), versuri lirice, poeme stil nipon,
publicistică.
În toţi aceşti ani publică cronici literare, eseuri,
sfaturi medicale, articole ştiinţifico-populare. Selecţii din
creaţia sa literară au fost incluse în peste 200 de antologii
şi culegeri din România, Rusia, SUA, Austria, Australia,
Franța, Canada, Coreea de Sud și Muntenegru,
Macedonia etc.

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Bozena Helena Mazur-Nowak
Poland
Scheherazade
You are like the lost treasure,
which I managed to find without a map,
he said
Your lips are like a mystery
I want you to share with me,
he added.
If your eyes could talk, they would tell the
story,
to which I could listen forever and ever,
let me, he begged.
And just using the
word he dressed me
up in jewels.
He became my
confidant,
and I am like
Scheherazade,
I am filling out our
nights telling stories about love.
Grandmother Maria
In the evenings she loved to sit by the window
in which stood proud geraniums,
she chased longingly with sight after the
clouds
and she sang like no one ever after her.
I used to sit silently at her feet and
I listened to the longing in her poems.
Grandma Maria taught me as the first one
to listen only to my inner heart.
She showed me also all shades of love,
she taught to distinguish between smells,
and told me, I should forgive, because
life is a little more gracious then.
Every summer I spent with my Grandma
was so different and unique to me.
I remember everything well to this day
although she is forever gone.
from the series "heart with Polish origin"
Zbigniew Michalski
Poland
Audrey Hepburn
kiedyznalazładlasiebie
wymarzoną ścieżkę przez życie
poczuła powiew
szczęścia
który wyniósł ją
bardzo szybko
pod niebiosa
choć musiała porzucić
złoty sen
za gwałtownym
zakrętem losu
pośród plejady
hollywoodzkich supergwiazd
zabłysła pełnią swojego talentu
nagradzana za profesjonalizm
częściej niż utytułowane aktorki
czarująca i dystyngowana
obywatelka świata
zapisała się wielkimi kreacjami
na kartach historii kina
do ostatka bawiła publiczność
oraz wybrednych krytyków
jakby nigdy jej nie zmęczył
spacer po cienkiej linie sławy

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Iwan Dartha
Indonesia
Inspiration
From the beginning the roots shine
Straight lines move sharply
Shielded by membrane
To establish many nice surfaces
Paint the dimensions of spaces
Color the stretched time
The empty labyrinth for
contemplation
The stormy air also fills up with
chronology
Sincetimeimmemorialandfuture
Morfem Monyet
Konon suatu saat, monyet-
monyet mendadak mampu
membaca. Monyong
menjulurkan matanya
membelalak. Malah mencoba
pula menulis mantera-mantera
membeda. Meringis
mengkernyit pada daun-daun kerontang yang
ber-jatuh-an. Berlaga pintar menganalisa
hubungan angin dan daun-daun.
Membanggakan kronologi angin
mengguncang pohon.
Monyet satu berceloteh: "Ini rimba kita,
bukan Kazan, tidak ada Baudoin. Kita juga
mampu menciptakan linguistik struktural".
Monyet-monyet itu saling bergumam
cekikikan. Seekor dari mereka menclok di
dahan tertinggi, berteriak: "Hai sobatku,
ayolah kita menulis mantera morfem versi
kita, pasti bisa menembus dunia". Seekor
lainnya pun menjerit: "Benar kawanku, mari
teriak sekeras petir, agar penghuni laut ikut
mengobarkan angin gemuruh kerinduan pada
kebenaran".
Episode Psikiatrik
limbung di sudut-sudut kelu
kaki-tangan bertahan hidup
bulu-bulu akal meregang
mata-mata juling memicing
mulut-mulut ngotot melotot
mabok merampok hari esok
oksidasi paradigma bergema
ber-imaji pada ragam bait
merekayasa logika kosa-kata
beralibi mengukir makna baru
melahirkan teriakan murka
ketika lari ke sudut bangsa
otak rusak enggan ozonisasi
akal-akalmiringtakmerasagaring
senyum retorika pamer
kepalsuan
komat-kamit sembur aroma
beracun
kaugila,menikmatibekalneraka
kita melukis warna-warni
pada kanvas ampas terhempas
di bumi getarkan aneka dinamika
meredam perbedaan berwibawa
benih-benih berbuah bahana
menyapa insan suka-duka
sadarlah: kita pencipta damai
penulis larik-larik melankolik
pemuja sajak mantra multimatra
pencinta pertiwi pusaka pilihan
pemilik laut dan bumi belum beku
gunung-gunung pun masih berjalan
nyanyian ragam nusantara mengalun

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Fresh flowers in a vase,
next to the dried one
precious flower
since last summer,
morning fogs and night frost,
toothy sun,
streets full of people,
a house full of warmth,
basket full of fruit
- all echoes of painful silence.
At night
in my alley is darkness and desolation,
only the puddles glitter
like lamps.
I'm listening
droplets ratling jingling,
Car brakes creaks ...
Maybe, someone knoks
at my door too.
That's how it happens
when it seem, like a naive child,
you fall in love
on the threshold of fifty-fifth.
You open yourself like a book,
show hopes, fears, worries ...
You bloom like a rose in the fall,
spread your arms wide
not knowing that
you are hugging north wind.
With a heart in an extended hand,
with dreams in the wounded soul,
with the letters in the open book,
with a tear in each petal
say farewell, say goodbye!
Wake up, grow up!
No matter how painful it is
to walk alone,
don't come back
in that summer any more!
Aunque caiga la noche
Y yo no pude llegar,
Tal vez él viento
El sólo me irá a contar.
Sus caras lo dicen todo
De mí tal vez hablarán,
Mí suegra muy preocupada
Porque no pude llegar.
Seguro que mí señora
A ella le explicará,
Que yo ando buscando
Un vino para tomar.
No es que a ella le guste
Sólo es para festejar,
Que tengo una suegra bella
Para mí no hay otra igual.
Dicen que está preocupada
Por el yerno que no está,
No creo que esté diciendo
Ojalá que no pueda llegar.
Las suegras son un regalo
Que uno tiene que cuidar,
Pues le pasan los años
Y le cuesta el caminar.
Ella es joven y muy linda
A su hija le fui a robar,
Una tarde muy hermosa
Que no me podré olvidar.
Bueno las letras se hicieron largas
Cuántas cosas le podría contar,
Es mí suegra, mí perla hermosa
Jamás la podría regalar.
Jaja
Selma Kopić
Bosnia and Herzegovina
The last beats of summer
Fabian Historias
Argentina
Tranquilas nadie escucha

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Adam Gwara
Poland
Błazna cień
[A Jester’s Shadow]
z przyzwyczajenia mrużąc oczy
szedłem choć ciężko było iść
a za plecami cień mój kroczył
choć raczej wlókł się, aż tu myśl
zmyśliła się że wrócić mogę
w dzieciństwa czas w słoneczny dzień
i cień wyskoczył mi pod nogi
jak gdyby błazen wstąpił weń
za każdym razem
cień mój błazen
za każdym razem
błazna cień
kiedy wyjść z domu się odważę
dogania mnie
przedrzeźnia mnie
ja kroki trzy on kroki trzy
przyśpieszam on się śpieszy
i nie wiem już czy ze mnie drwi
czy się z pomysłu cieszy
ja w lewo krok on w lewo też
ja zmieniam rytm on zmienia
ja przez kałużę i on przez
no zgrywus głupi szczeniak
za każdym razem
cień mój błazen
za każdym razem
błazna cień
dogania mnie
przedrzeźnia mnie
tak odprowadził mnie do drzwi
gdzie objął mnie ramieniem
poczułem się zmęczony i
sam byłem cienia cieniem
piwniczny chłód ogarnął mnie
skórę przebiegły dreszcze
i pomyślałem - jeszcze nie
spróbuję przejść się jeszcze
za każdym razem
cień mój błazen
za każdym razem
błazna cień
dogania mnie
przedrzeźnia mnie
Good morning yesterday
są takie puste herbaciarnie
gdzie spotykają się po latach
pomaturalni nierealni
wagarowicze z końca świata
można ich poznać po stolikach
łączonych całkiem bez
potrzeby
bo może Hanka... może
Michał...
to niemożliwe żeby nie był...
podobno Janek się posypał
popatrz... a taki był sportowiec
wierzyć się nie chce... pewnie
grypa
nocotypowiesz...cotypowiesz...
Halinka wyszła za ministra...
Marek w Australii...w Belgii Ewa...
no popatrz... kto by to pomyślał...
no co ty...kto by się spodziewał...
kapią na obrus stearyną
całują zimne filiżanki
no popatrz...czas tak szybko minął
jak tamten singiel Paula Anki
pamiętasz jak pachniały drzewa?
pamiętam tylko że nie przyszłaś
czekałeś? kto by się spodziewał...
do dzisiaj...kto by to pomyślał...

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198
Maria Strzelec-Leszczyniecka
Poland
Magic
Magią
był dom wymarzony
który budowała latami
smak wiśni razem zrywanych
kilka zasuszonych wspomnień
głos cykad i trawy
jedyny orzech laskowy
schowany na wieczną pamiątkę
w pudełku po złotych kolczykach
i ślubnej obrączce
które jej kiedyś
podarował
Omar Aburto
México
Escrito con
estrellas
Fulgente, sin dormir es mi sueño
y dormido brota sugestivo,
clarividente no intuitivo
yo y mi yo de nuevo somos uno.
En noche invernal de ensueño
envíos en cielo cerúleo veo
escritos con estrellas, lo entreveo,
furtivo, c0n celo vidente leo
En fulgor iluminado viajo
levitando desde el inicio,
fino cruzo, puro en el espacio
en fúlgida luz fugaz yo vago.
Sutil vibra mi alma, devoto,
áureos mensajes que etéreos veo
con polvo de estrellas en rocío
“…fecha fija, desierto ignoto”.
Sameer Goel
India
Poem
let not the fall, ever crush thou
be strong in the heart and the mind..
bounce back harder to soar new heights
a stronger thou must incarnate..
never let the setbacks, set thou back
for they deserve a stronger comeback..
pick up thine ashes,
refill the fire
rise like a phoenix,
soaring new heights..
across the horizon,
the sun awaits thou
rise and shine,
denouncing every
setback..
Walls
walls, once created to secure the faith
those walls seemingly imprisoned humanity..
whence dividing brother from brother
culminating compassion, this inhuman vanity..
suffocated breaths, humanity's last sigh
a call so it makes, for revival of posterity..
wake up o' sleeping hearts, the time is high
this division imparts, a host of insanity..
let love bloom, for there is only one religion
compassion and brotherhood, the only
solution..
let's break these shells, without a single word
for now we want, One Nation: One World..

13
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Bhagirath Choudhary
India
Ubuntu
I am
Because we are
And my dear you
Says Ubuntu !
I came
All innocent
Without past lament
As a moon crescent
I came
With creative courage
To light up earth
Her days and nights
With joy and mirth
I came to share
All the heavenly ware
How could I ?
Be happy
When all others
My sisters and brothers
Treading hungry and sad
Did I come ?
To compete
With others
My sisters and brothers
Denying them
Without shame
Mother Earth's ware
Coveting their legitimate share
Hadn't been
Gifts unseen
Bestowed and given
Like benevolent bacteria hidden
Energy ATM in my every body cell
Where pious Mitochondria dwell
As cosmic cooperation warriors
Truly as cosmic goodness carriers.
I am a cosmic cooperative
I am a cosmic narrative
Born of evolutionary hope and charity
O, Ubuntu
Let me discover anew my humanity.
Lenuş Lungu
Bhagirath Choudhary
Bhagirath Choudhary is part of the category
of people who look at life in an amalgam of
colors, dreams, sounds, senses, but, above all,
has the rare ability to share them through their
language: rhymes, lyrics and figures of speech.
The poet Bhagirath Choudhary says what he
thinks. He is a painter who paints his vision of
the world, and in his hands is the
power. The sheet is the support,
but its strongest weapon
remains the word. He is the only
one who can capture the
oxymoron of life, the pain of a
tear, the intensity of a smile, the
love itself, he dresses worlds and
dreams.
His soul is like a violin. Once
its strings are delicately touched,
music is able to awaken
emotions through a pure
symphony, transform feelings
into absolute knowledge and
knowledge into feelings. But the
fragility of the soul determines
the possessor to dress it in a
rhyming robe, a coat of verses capable of
retaining silence and calming the tumult of the
heart by sharing thoughts. Poetry represents the
way to speak one's own truth, to escape from
everyday life and the way in which readers
soothe their souls by immunizing them to the
decay of society. This is for the poet a bridge
between reality seen as a contradictory mixture
of happiness and pain and the sublime universes
in which he finds refuge. He offers us a white
sheet and a pen of a poet. It will shape our world
because poetry is basically the protest of
emotions, the art capable of offering the human
eye the perfection of imperfect things, refuges in
which peace and calm dominate.
Bhagirath Choudhary is able to create worlds
and universes!

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198
Omar Aburto
México
Escrito con estrellas
Fulgente, sin dormir es mi sueño
y dormido brota sugestivo,
clarividente no intuitivo
yo y mi yo de nuevo somos uno.
En noche invernal de ensueño
envíos en cielo cerúleo veo
escritos con estrellas, lo entreveo,
furtivo, c0n celo vidente leo
En fulgor iluminado
viajo
levitando desde el
inicio,
fino cruzo, puro en el
espacio
en fúlgida luz fugaz yo
vago.
Sutil vibra mi alma, devoto,
áureos mensajes que etéreos veo
con polvo de estrellas en rocío
“…fecha fija, desierto ignoto”.
Smart Oyedeji
Nigeria
The Chosen One....
Your garment and sparks of affection are
enticing
every bit of second under the influence of the
rising sun
The butterfly that dances on the blue surface
of your shoulder will make the heart of men
submit to thebeauty of your spirit
Even from the dark side of nature,
Men could sight the appearance of the
summer sun that puts on the image of your
peerless face,
Bringing out a beauty like a sky cloaked with
a plate of rainbow
Spread your cloth of affection and ease the
pain of thousands weeping to have a taste
of your presence,
For you're the only one capable of unleashing
the sparksof joy amid the sobbing cloud
Time and season have
respect on your value
The stars always align
themselves in honour
of your glory
And you're the only
angel known to ever
feed on the amazing
production of the
spring
Jupiter has enclosed you in the riches of nature
Venus has organized your spirit in love and
beauty
And the marks of heaven upon your body has
being a source
of illumination for all
You're the joy of the present and the future,
You're the sweet-smelling rose,
The wild honey of the spring
You're the chosen one!

15
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Antonia Rodríguez Ferreiro
Spain
Té
Sentada delante de una taza de té,
en una conocida cafetería,
mirando al mundo con osadia,
esperando encontrar mi fe.
Enfrente, un viejo caballero
está a leer,
una revista de pornografía,
levemente teniéndola
escondida,
entre las páginas del diario
de ayer.
Llegando está el tranvía,
bajando una jóven mujer,
acercándoselecomounaarpía.
Sentándose frente a él,
recibe el talón de regalía,
hipnotizada por su poder!
Graciela Beatriz Sovran Haro
Argentina
A mi esposo
Por tantos malos negocios,
por tanto impulso fallido,
a la vejez he venido
sin un pasar decoroso.
Por tanto error cometido,
por los caminos torcidos,
hoy ya no gozo una casa
que a mí me ha pertenecido.
De tanto como tuvimos
tú yo lo perdimos todo,
y en la vejez busco el modo
de continuar el camino.
Pero hay algo que agradezco
a tu consejo tan sabio:
volver al verso de antaño
con más fuerza que al
comienzo.
Porque a escribir me
impulsaste,
a esta sensación radiante,
mas,los bienes materiales,
por cierto,los expulsaste.
Malos negocios reprocho,
reprocho que no me oyeras,
mas,en poesía vieras,
este futuro que noto.
En parte voy a la pena
por lo que tú me quitaras,
en parte el verso me hallara
en una sabia faena.
Y el verso a ti te lo debo
porque a escribir me impulsaras.

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198
Muhedin Mahilaj
Albania
Mysafirë jemi!
Mysafir të gjithë jemi.
Si sotē edhe dje.
Pēr tē marr asgjë nuk kemi,
Veç një grushtë dhe!
Asgjë smarrim e as fitojmë,
Pse i shtojmē qiellit re?
Kemi ardhur dhe do shkojmē.
Ç'ndodh kështu me ne!
Vritet , vritet
pafajesia,
Vritet plaku dhe
fëmia,
Lahet në gjakē
djalëria,
Mëndje pse na le?
Hiqni dorë nga
marrëzia,
Të vihet paqia - dashuria,
Të forcohet vëllazēria.
Aq mē tepēr sot!
Sehir bënë njerëzia,
Në udhëkryq diplomacia,
Mëndë na i mori babëzia.
Çpo ndodh sot në botë!
Mos afroni ditën e gjykimit,
Por atë të paqētimit,
Para Zotit kur të dilni,
Mos të derdhni lot!
Mysafir të gjithë jemi,
Dashurin të parë të kemi,
Para Zotit kur të vemi.
T'na jap mëshirë të plotë!
Labud N. Lončar
Montenegro
Jedna žena sanja more
Jaweed Ahmed
India
Monsoon
Every year in mid June
The wind comes in her mellow tune
From the vast sea and large lagoon
Over the dusky hills and sandy dune
Swiftly and smoothly she was strewn
I think you may hear her so soon
Dancing under the midnight moon
Monsoon playing the fiddle soon
She is the kind nature's prettiest boon
To revive the mother earth so soon
Nadošlo zrelo grožđe
I vri u dojkama
U glavi more huči
Znojna noć niz trbuh curi
Dok sokovi mame leptirove.
U glavi Galeb klikće
Pjesmom nekazanom
Doziva San i
Kao magla misli obavija
Dok daleki talasi
Ime dozivaju.
Miriše rana jesen i
Postelju pod prozorom
Sokovima topi —
Jedna žena sanja more!

17
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Anna Saracchi
Italia
Guardo il mare
Quel mormorio del mare
che ascolto seduta nella riva
quando assorta mi rilasso,
lontana da questa vita ingrata
immersa tra il moto ondoso
dove naufragano senza remi
i miei pensieri,
guardo uno spettacolo reale
soltanto io e il mare
il vento che scompiglia
i miei capelli e un onda sale
bagna sincera la mia pelle e
poi va via,
rimango ancora assorta
quasi immersa dentro un sogno
dove nascosta tra la sabbia
resta ancora la mia infanzia,
una fanciulla spensierata che
inseguiva un aquilone colorato
correndo sfidando il vento
senza paura di cadere,
sono qui ora e guardo il mare
vedo il mio passato
resto nel presente
spero nel futuro
ma poi non vedo niente,
tra le onde perdo la mia rotta
cerco ancora, mmersa tra la nebbia offuscata
dalla foschia
cerco una barca che mi porti
via
Slavka Bozovic
Montenegro
Whisper of rain...
I love when the rain rustles,
her whisper touches me,
the storm disappears in the soul,
that beautiful feeling hugs me.
I love that game of romance,
the restlessness in me calms
down,
the wind flips through the
pictures,
the stream of love from my
heart springs.
Then the wings of longing
carry me,
through the auras of loved
ones,
I float between the drops of
memory,
emotions sway on the eyelids.
I'm fascinated by the magical whisper of the
rain,
fountains in the veins overflow,
the soul turns into a violin,
well, the charms of the symphony do not cease.

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198
Bajram Bajro Neljković
Bosnia And Herzegovina
Zavičaj mi u grudima spava
Da sam soko i da imam krila,
Da se vinem nebu u visine.
Da obiđem moj zavičaj mio,
Lijepi Plav i rodno Gusinje.
Da je meni da preletim samo,
Rodna brda Gusinjske doline.
Da posjetim mezar roditelja,
I Izvore da me želja mine.
Da pogledam na našu
dolinu,
Od Gusinja pruža se do
Plava.
Jer me srce samo tamo
vuče,
Rodno mjesto nema
zaborava.
Ja te sanjam i o tebi mislim,
Nikada te nisam napustio.
Otišo sam moralo se tako,
Ali sam te u srcu ponio.
Da sam soko i da imam krila,
Svakog bi ti dana dolazio.
Na izvore napio se vode,
Ali paša što nam ostavio.
Preletio Gusinjsku čaršiju,
I mahale našeg lijepog Plava.
Da me želja i merak moj mine,
Zavičaj mi u grudima spava.
Luciano Zampini
Italy
Anche la notte
Il silenzio bruciò le sue carte nella mano,
appenacalateeranogiàprossimeallafinedelgioco
come uno stallo restava seduto all'angolo di un
tormento
appisolatotraifantiimpettitisimordevalelabbra.
Se non ci fosse stato quel colpo di vento
se non fossero cadute vorticosamente le attese
se tutto fosse così dichiaratamente semplice
il patibolo avrebbe
cantato un'altra
vittoria scontata.
Opale, ora azzurro ora
grigio perla l’idea…
roteava insinuando la
soluzione in quel
budello di lamento
mentre le perle si
infilavano nella buca delle disobbedienze
si riempiva la sacca delle certezze apparenti.
Fu colpa dell'ultimo lampo ad accendere la
scia alla vita
mentre tutto moriva nella dimenticanza del
tempo
qualcuno trovava il coraggio di risorgere come
Fenice
si, anche la notte più desolante deve
attraversare il deserto...
Per giungere a mare aperto serve una paura da
raccontare...

19
ISSN 2458-0198 – ISSN-L 2458-0198
Tu şi eu
O amintire și o lacrimă de sare
Tu erai ramul verde pe care înverzeam,
Mă legănai în nopțile pline cu stele,
Acum mi-ești dor,suspin de când nu te mai am
Și-mi bântui cu amintiri gândurile mele.
Soarta mi te-a uscat și mi te-a frânt,
Mă vestejesc nemaiavînd unde înflori,
Ai devenit doar un tribut pentru pământ
Și roua dimineților reci ce îl vor stropi.
Tu erai ramul, eu mugurul bobocului de floare,
Ce răspândea în preajmă-ți miros îmbătător,
Acum mi-ești doar o amintire nemuritoare,
Eu lacrimă de ceară topită de al tău dor.
Tu erai seva mea ce în viață mă ținea,
Din care sorbeam ferice și eram împlinită,
Astăziînneputințăgustdoarsingurătateagrea,
În tăcere m-ascund și zac nefericită.
Tu erai esența vieții,prin tine trăiam,
Respirai prin mine și cât de fericit erai,
Ramul meu drag pe care eu înfloream,
Acum port o cruce,tu ești un înger în rai.
Totul în jurul meu e trist și mă doare,
Din ramul pe care îți înfloream gingașă floare,
Dintr-o poveste de dragoste arzătoare,
Atâtamairămasoamintireșiolacrimădesare.
znów słucham ciszy którą nagość szepcze
podsłuchuję wersy co za sobą biegną
wybieram obrazy tylko te najlepsze
i kwiatów naręcza co przy mnie nie zwiędną
dusza ma wzlatuje ponad mgły obłoki
znów szczęścia uczucie wypełnia mą całość
w palcach zaplątane ukochane loki
w oczach najpiękniejsza wymarzona nagość
delikatny uśmiech pysznej kokieterii
zapach co prowadzi me zmysły w
szaleństwo
kocham cię kochanie – płynie z papeterii
jakże cudne nocą uczuć człowieczeństwo
wśród dłoni splecionych dwa kochane ciała
deszcz wieczorny szepcze monolog miłosny
noc już wszystkie gwiazdy na zawsze
oddała
dzień nowy się budzi o nagość zazdrosny
nie otwieraj oczu powiek nie przecieraj
nie odpędzaj stanu w którym tak jak w
niebie
z biciem serc płonących nigdy się nie
spieraj
tu bądźmy na zawsze zapatrzeni w siebie
niech nas świat kołysze gdy czas się
zatrzymał
myśli niech się złożą znów w wiersz o
miłości
w grzechu jak najsłodszym będę dokazywał
w twoim ciele moje teraz się rozgości
wy teraz znikajcie w swoje prywatności
szaleństwo miłosne też wam się należy
uskrzydlajcie miłość w cudownej nagości
wiara czyni cuda gdy się w to uwierzy
Pysznych Myśli Słowa
ELENA TUDOSĂ
Romania
Tu și eu
Adam Żemojtel
Poland
Znów slucham

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Oana Lupaşcu
Romania
Salta la luna
Saltavo piena di gioia
Nel mio vestitino a fiori
Fatto di primavera
Di vento e di allegri canti
Quando ti ho incontrato
Ma tu mi hai portato via
Tra un salto e l'altro
Da sotto ai piedi l'allegria
Siamo diversi è chiaro
Mentre io ho scelto
Le gioie dei miei giorni
Molto prima di
provarle
Per condividerle con
te
Pensavo che l'allegria
Fosse contagiosa
Ma mi sbagliavo
Tu hai scelto come
sempre
Essere noioso ed egoista
Il solito te stesso
E ti ritrovi con solo la tristezza
Hai commesso
Il peggiore peccato
Hai vissuto senza gioia
Nella tua veste triste
Grigia, stretta e corta
Senza renderti conto
Della mia passione
Che volevo regalare a te
Non hai capito
Preso solo da te stesso
Che ti offrivo l'ultima tua
occasione
Di essere felice
E l'hai sprecata
Ma io, anche se sono caduta
Dalla mia nuvola rosa
Sono sicura che da sola
Cantando come di prima
La mia gioia di vivere
Mi rialzerò
Ancora viva
Avrei voluto essere rossa,
ma tutti mi prendono in giro,
dicendo che sono un vampiro.
Vorrei scavarmi una fossa,
tutti quegli occhi mi
danno il capogiro,
e mi ritrovo a fare la
finta bionda,
anche se mi sento
ancora presa in giro.
Invidia, odio, rancore,
per essere una bella
giovane oziosa,
così scostante,
insopportabilmente odiosa,
come l'esistenza piena di dolore.
Avrei voluto non essere stata così innocente,
così pura.
Esser rimasta a casa,
senza fare niente.
Senza capire che la superbia non è la mia cura,
e nemmeno desiderare che il mondo,
là fuori,
sparisca.
E nel mio profondo,
sopravvivo,
con un demone incatenato
affamato di sangue, interiora e cioccolato.
Posso essere la tua immaginazione così reale,
il miraggio perfetto che puoi toccare.

21
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Avere il mio corpo ed essere divorato,
abbracciarmi forte e finire strangolato.
Sì, desideravo essere la reginetta del ballo,
la bella principessa,
salvata dall'uomo sul cavallo,
ma col coraggio di una leonessa.
Non volevo diventare grande,
adolescente,
non volevo arrivare a certe risposte,
di certe domande,
a bruciare una Bibbia
per poi togliermi la vita così miseramente.
Gli anni bruciati e la vita buttata,
bugie così belle,
la verità malata,
finendo per guardare le stelle,
tremendamente addolorata,
e il giorno in cui son morta,
ho solo scoperto,
che in realtà ero risorta.
Vorrei esser rimasta una
vergine pura,
con gli occhi innocenti come il
cielo,
ma son una peripatetica
dell'ultimo secolo,
con la pelle fredda e l'anima in gelo.
Bere fino a toccare la luna,
fumare con una grande voglia di uccidere,
affamata di sangue, interiora e cioccolato,
e con troppi peccati da redimere.
Avrei non aver mai baciato,
tradito, abbandonato,
chi con me è stato solo narcisista,
freddo, egoista.
Vorrei aver solo amato,
anche a chi mi faceva solo male,
vorrei non aver mai baciato,
anche chi mi voleva davvero amare.
Vorrei non essermi mai incantata allo
specchio,
guardandomi un'ultima volta,
scrutando quell'animo così consumato e
vecchio,
ripetendo che morirò sola,
che la vita non ha avuto senso,
ripercorrendo gli orribili giorni passati,
e sentendo l'Immenso,
sussurrarmi,
perchè son stati così crudeli,
i miei anni tanto amati?
Sì, desideravo essere la regina
della scuola,
la ragazza stupenda,
che ti punta contro una pistola,
e ti fa fare una fine orrenda.
Non volevo diventare così
vendicativa,
così crudele e assente,
non volevo arrivare ad
uccidere chi mente,
pur di trovare la mia verità così
cattiva.
Non volevo arrivare a bruciare
una Bibbia
per poi vivere una vita eretica combattente.
Gli anni buttati e la vita bruciata,
l'anima disperata,
la mente suicida,
le dolci menzogne e la realtà cattiva,
finendo per guardare le montagne,
fra grida, morte e follia omicida,
son morta,
per scoprire solo che ero ancora viva.
Il Diario dell'ultimo Nichilista

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destiny m o chijioke
Nigeria
Pillars of nation
Falling of the mighty city
When the ears is dumb
How can the wise speak
When the odd is in the
Favor of the fool how can
Nation produce men of
Understanding.
Cracking through the
basement
Of the interior and
exterior motive of the
heart and mind of
men.
It hard to kick against
the pricks
Curse have render
upon us
Because the heart is perpetrated with evil
The mind thinks more and not attains nothing.
What message do we preach"
Who has taken advantage of our foolishness
against us?
Who has robbed us?
Who has done these evil against us?
Old men of the ancient
Knew beneath the surface
They got hold of the
Pillars through strength and courage,
They chase away fear and brought
Peace to the land, the land rested.
But who are these fluttering sparrows
That has stolen national treasure.
Men wake up.
The house is fallen
The pillars one have being
Taking, replace with lies
Providing us with mere riches
But the secret that hold the riches
Is taking away and turning to lies.
Give us our nation.
We need to restore back our nation!
We need to chase
away the pot belle
We need to drive out
godfatherism
We need to practice
democracy
We need a brand new
country
Without spot or
wrinkles.
we need undefied nation with
Great goal and plan for the upcoming
generation.
We need a nation of truth and blessing
We need a nation of heart and mind.
Not a nation of lies and curse
Not a nation that is filled with emotional
concoction and little mind thinkers.
We need heart filled and mind filled..
Give me back my nation.

23
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Daniela Vîlceanu
Romania
Dilematic
Spune-mi dacă mă primești într-un vis în care
te plictisești?
Spune-mi dacă aș face cu Luna prinsoare,
Ai fi dispus să mă găzduiești în visele tale?
Dacă aș toarce fir de dor dintr-un nor aș putea
bandaja iubirile care dor?
Dacă prin perdeaua de gene mi-
ar pătrunde praf de stele,
Mi-ai șterge lacrimile cu o
batistă din flori de albăstrele?
Dac-aș obosi și n-aș putea să
mă ridic,
Mi-ai putea căra iubirea până la
margine de infinit?
Dacă ar răsări flori din talpa
mea, umblând,
Mi le-ai uda cu lacrimile
ochiului tău stâng?
Dacă ar fi curcubeul cerului
numai al tău,
L-ai putea risipi să scrii în rogvaiv numele
meu?
Ți-ai dedica o noapte, de mai, să faci un pat din
petale de maci
Să-mi demonstrezi în răsărit că nu suntem de
dragoste săraci?
M-ai îmbăta cu vin de trandafir și boabă
stafidită
Să mă ataci șoptindu-mi versuri o noapte sau
o mie o sută?
Să-ți cad pe brațe fluturând batista albă,
istovită,
Cuceritorule, erou, felicitări, pentru a ta
izbândă!
Răspunde-mi sincer, mă iubești?
Sau îmi văd de nimicurile mele lumești?
Giovanbattista Fetta
Italy
– Libri imperdibili
– Libri imperdibili
(ma irreperibili) :
– Guarda come dondolo!
Da "Gli impiccati" di Villon
a "Come tirare le cuoia
senza paura:
la canzone del boia".
La pena di morte in
letteratura.
–In principio era il
(cruci)verbo
e dio lo risolse in sette giorni
creando il mondo:
l'origine mistica
della Settimana Enigmistica.
– Storia finalmente svelata
di Gesù, il primo cosmonauta,
che giunto sulla terra dallo spazio
fu perseguitato come alieno,
e per sfuggire allo strazio
ripartì per il cielo
in un battibaleno
sulla "crux", un razzo-motore
ad autopropulsione
di sua esclusiva invenzione.

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Lina Alfieri
Italy
„”Andate anche voi nella
vigna”
„Andate anche voi nella vigna;
quello che è giusto ve lo darò”.
Il proprietario terriero esce all'alba,
in cerca di braccianti
e li cerca fino a che c'è luce.
Da a loro tutti la stessa paga,
non toglie nulla a
primi...
aggiunge agli altri.
Non è ingiusto, ma
generoso.
L'uomo prima del
mercato,
la dignità prima delle
ore ...
avvolge di carità la giustizia
e la profuma.
Lui dona,che non sa fare di conto,
ma sa saziarci di sorprese.
Nessun vantaggio, allora,
a essere operai della prima ora?
Un vanto c'è, umile e potente,
''aver reso più bella la vigna della storia."
''Verrai a cercarmi ancora,
anche se si sarà fatto molto tardi?''
La vigna è il campo più amato,
quello in cui l'agricoltore investe
lavoro e passione,
fatica e poesia.
Senza poesia
anche il sorso di vino
è sterile.
Antoinette DiGiorgio Corbell
Italy
Steam
In the heat of the humid night
Sanity can become
obscured
All I feel is the hot
perspiration
Clinging to every inch
Of this burning body
My mind is muddled
fog
Yet each pore is aware of the heat
Exuding from them
I think about the edginess
Of the quiet darkness
Not a breeze is blowing
This stillness makes me gag
There I am waiting
For this ardor to be doused
Ahhh, at last the caress of his touch
A fresh gust of cool breeze
Sending thrills throughout
My impassioned form
Releasing steam

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Gianfranco Aurilio
Italy
Così è il tuo amore
Lontano
quel soffio di sole
sui miei occhi erranti
nella luce del giorno
di un mattino d’estate,
eppure
così vicino
che sembra nato
intorno a me.
Così è il tuo amore
che adesso fugge
per mai più ritornare.
Lo conserverò
tra i tramonti del cuore.
Giusy Criscuolo Padovan
Italy
Or che ti domani
Or che ti domandi,
cosa c'è d'umano l'uomo,
senza ascoltar
avvinghia,
l'aura funesta
del tormentato stuolo.
Ordunque, Villani fummo,
quand'anche rigettammo,
ma a capo chino
o peggio,
lindi impettiti e sordi,
vagammo pel contorto
labirinto del peggior vanto:
sorpresi e stolti, accettammo.
Gemei,
gememmo ciechi,
d'ignobil nulla.
Anna Maria Strzelec-Leszczyniecka
Poland
[Magic]
[Untitled***]
Magią
był dom wymarzony
który budowała latami
smak wiśni razem zrywanych
kilka zasuszonych wspomnień
głos cykad i trawy
jedyny orzech laskowy
schowany na wieczną
pamiątkę
w pudełku po złotych
kolczykach
i ślubnej obrączce
które jej kiedyś podarował
Mariana Rogoz Stratulat
Romania
Departe de tine...
Lacrimi se-ascund sub pleoape
și liniștea mă doare.
Îmbrățișez o stea,
un dor din lumânare,
mi-agăț suspinu-n noapte
cu miez dulce de floare,
zâmbesc îndrăgostită
la anii ce-au trecut,
la iarba ofilită
sub pasul moale și tăcut.
Ating ceașca de ceai,
mai sorb un abur oblic
și-nchid iar amintirea
copilului în ornic.
Mi-e dor de Tine, Mamă,
de vocea ta - poem albastru -,
de-mbrățișarea,
ce-o aștept și azi,
de pasăre măiastră.

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Zbigniew Michalski
Poland
Audrey Hepburn
kiedy znalazła dla siebie
wymarzoną ścieżkę przez życie
poczuła powiew szczęścia
który wyniósł ją bardzo szybko
pod niebiosa
choć musiała porzucić złoty sen
za gwałtownym zakrętem losu
pośród plejady
hollywoodzkich supergwiazd
zabłysła pełnią
swojego talentu
nagradzana za
profesjonalizm
częściej niż
utytułowane aktorki
czarująca i
dystyngowana
obywatelka świata
zapisała się wielkimi kreacjami
na kartach historii kina
do ostatka bawiła publiczność
oraz wybrednych krytyków
jakby nigdy jej nie zmęczył
spacer po cienkiej linie sławy
Bozena helena Mazur-Nowak
Poland
The bird' hearts
Don't scare my birds away, please,
they are so tired after the long trip.
They perched on the apple tree, and
will surely be sleeping there tonight.
Let them dream about the dreamland,
so far distant and so wonderful,
where life flows very slowly,
and there is no violence at all.
Where the forests are still virgin
and blue lagoons up to the sky.
The sea of grass to the line of the horizon.
Are there such places yet on the Earth?
They are definitely in the birds' hearts,
and they are in our deepest dreams,
the reality is cruel and won't change, as
the men kill the surrounding world each day.
Tanu Vermani Kapoor
UnitedArab Emirates
Entwined
Incessantly
entangled...
in untwisting and
untwining..
Recalcitrant knots
of memories are conniving.
Unravels scars, solemnly I sigh,
To vulnerable stance
... and destiny I comply.
Agony will cease...
all enmeshed will be sort;
I’ll cherish for now, whatever I’ve got.
As stars.....we are born...
... we sparkle and die.
It’s doomed from beginning,
... no reason to cry!!
To heart these musings...
... are of solace..
Implausible desires lay sedated....
.... undeviated at one place!!

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Zehra Bajić Alić
Bosnia And Herzegovina
Ti i on
Nemaš ti tu ludost iza uha
koja bi nakapala mi se na jezik
on i kada ćuti govori mi slatke riječi
u tvojim očima su tame i blijesak nedorečenog
ja u njegovim mijesim nebo
i bistro jezero .
Ti nikada nećeš biti on
on i kada me lomi
puše u rane
uzme me za prste i stisne ih
jako
miriše kosu
uđe u trbuh čežnji i ode
jer zna da ga čekam.
Nemaš ti usne kao on
koje bi ja ugrzla željnim zubima
i osjetila toplu krv
u kojoj crvena zrnca piju ona bijela
ti si samo zapetljan vjetar
koji ne zna gdje i kamo da duva.
Ja i neću da budeš ti on
jer on je moja ljubav
moja kaplja sunca u zoru
on je moja koža naborana oko struka
i osmjeh iza kog je tuga.
Nećeš ti nikada biti on
ne dam
ma pusti to
ni jedan od vas dva
za dušu me ujest neće
ni neko treći , peti
al on ostavio je trag
i uvjek se vraća
na svoje mjesto.
Bello Ayuba
Nigeria
I can't marry a poetess
How can I seduce you?
While stars abet you to
consume rays
In lines sparkling words on
papers
How can I seduce you ?
While I only grope hays
That impregnate rhythms
Incite pen to bear rhymes
Instead soaking her nipples but
end in pen's nipple
A poetess is a goddess
That:
Spurts your faith to frolic
Spurs your pain to prey
Spurns your stick to seduce or grope grace
I can't marry a poetess
With no doubt my chest 'll be her slates
My feet 'll turn to hooves
She bathes me in inks
And dresses in bookshelves
With no doubt I'll be vagrant.

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Joanna Svensson
Sweden
A new life
Years ago, when summer
Was about to end
I felt so intensely and strongly
That the time was getting near
The time I had awaited
For oh, so many days
The time that bore
The fruit of love
I felt so blessed and
healed
By everything around
The sun flowers of
days
Of days of late summer
Whispered every
morning
That it will be a be a beautiful
Beautiful late summer's day
The day that the new life arrives
Shy little dragonflies
Of that late summers day
Were dancing pirouettes
On the glassy surface
Of the tiny little brook
Even Uncle September
With his hat with the widest brim
Often came to visit
Sitting on the bench
In our shady little garden
Making notes on invisible paper
Written in invisible ink
Telling that a miracle
Was about to take place
Early in the morning
On that last summer's day
All was prepared
For the miracle to take place
A New life was to begin
With no predicted time
This was about to be
A great big harvest
fiest
Everything was
prepared
All in perfect time
The Apple-trees of
utmost splendor
Had offered their
sunriped fruit
The Dog-Rose bush
Came all dressed up
In a dark green coat
All emerald and juicy
Shaped by fullgrown verdure
With ornaments of coralred pearls
The sun flowers had decided
To stand guard at the garden gates
I saw them there already
On the night before at sunset
Confering with each other
Trimning their splendid, colorful clothes

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I just knew that it would be
Such a very special day
When the life I bore inside of me
The first of two blessed lives
Was about to enter
To be welcomed into this world
I prayed and I felt the blessing
Sweep me in its veil so soft
Sweep me in its gentle bossom
And kiss me with prosperity
I sensed myself
Standing on a meadow
Filled with moisty
Morning dew
Reaching hands in the air
Towards heaven - praying that
It would all
Turn out well
Then I saw
A glade in heaven
I saw it slowly
Open up
A Guardian angel
Was coming down to me
Saying it would walk beside
The newborn child for ever more
Years ago that magic summer
When the summer was about to end
Yes, on that very last day of summer
Praise the Lord for a life so blessed
That's when my first born son was born!
George Ioniţă
Romania
Ploaie despărţită-n două
cu ce-am putea să stingem focul
ce ne arde-n trup
uscate buze sărutul iar s-adape
şi mâna ta în mâna mea un legământ -
de mai încape...
voi curge peste tine-ntr-un
potop de doruri ude
inundă-mă şi tu în val de rouă
să răcorim aceaste clipe prea
arzânde
cu stropi de ploaie despărţită-
n două...
Elena Spătaru
Romania
Când vara zâmbește
Te vreau pe șes
precum grâul ales,
să gustăm amorul
cu chip de fluturași aleși,
să rătăcim prin univers deschis
în glasul tău de vis
să rămân un crin special,
când vara zâmbește
veselă în noapte,
un dans feeric
deasupra noastră.

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Paul Rotaru
Romania
Misery
I’m slipping like the water in the sewers
Towards the cradle of a muddy sea.
No gathering of some compliant viewers,
But only hopes and only misery.
My goddess always swears a candid loving –
Sometimes I know she cheats, sometimes I
don’t.
I thirstly kiss her hair in the morning –
She doesn’t feel! I know she always won’t…
Perhaps I am indifferent to her passion,
Perhaps I never understand her lust.
Oh, tell me Lord, how
should I pass this
session
Or how, at least, I’d
clean my eyes of dust.
She only cheats the
manhood with her
beauty,
The mistress in a land
of criminals.
My poem is the feeling
of a naughty
Who sucks the blood of pacifying gulls.
Forgive me, Sun, for these unchained illusions;
Forgive me, Moon, for my dispair in night.
I’ll never have the strenght to fight confusions,
I shan’t be able to defeat the right.
That’s what I am: a slave into the doubtness,
The ultimate of demons to defeat.
My misery is keeping me in darkness
As rivers bring their garbage just to eat.
She’s just a dream who promisses the heaven
To all she kills! I know she always does.
No blood, no soul, no worries – they just
happen
To die before the world would give its fuzz!
I know, because we live the same old story,
With cheated humans, guilty for their love.
Tomorrow tells me not to have a worry,
As haven never lies in skies above.
I shan’t be laughing! That means no deliver
Of what could be just a satanic joke.
Oh, Buddha, let me sink into the river
And just revive through my consuming fog.
I would forget the misery of hoping
If only I had less of poetry.
I would defy eternal sins of loving
If only I’d never tasted misery!
Forgive me, Love! I can’t be fool pretending
Of never hearing shewolves cry their lust.
By God! By Satan! I shall be defending
My only treasure: poems in the dust!
So please, my darling goddess, don’t
remember
A drop of tear flowing from my eyes!
I hope you would be safe until november,
Unless you change the number Satan dials!
You might be safer without all my poems,
You might be happier after I die.
My grave will swallow
every reminiscence
To keep you strong in
hope you’ll learn to fly.
Beloving memories
would fade in sewers
As rats let poison to
revive their blood.
Don’t be afraid, my
goddess, only rumours
Are prophecies of the
eternal flood!
Keep loving everything that nature offers,
Keep breathing all the air for your heart.
Before you realize that Satan covers
Your immortality, I’ll be apart!
So don’t pretend that you regret this moment
Of sudden leaving Eden in the sky.
Your mouth of Sun will breath the air of
covenant
Until consuming wishes that I die.
And free, forgeting all my once existence
You would be happy lying other fool.
By getting older, you will make the difference
Between a cheaper world and other doom.
At least you’re just a shewolf, precious
goddess;
You’ll be remembered as iconic star
And all the misery I felt in darkness
Will flow into the poem that you are!

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Odujebe Oluwole
Nigeria
Sunrise hope
It was a bright sunrise
At time so nebulous
The sun in it's guise
Do reveal the fabulous!
The shore's miracle
On the morning sands
Sprouts to the pinacle
On the vast sea bands!
A Sunday, so radiant
Ambience so serene
The breeze so brilliant
A wonder filled scene!
Here love did prevail
Nature's sweet scent
Too, profusely avail
In hope, magnificent!
Suresh Chandra Sarangi
India
Who is wife ?
A wife is half of the man, transcend.
In value far all other friends.
She every earthly blessing brings.
And even redemption from her springs.
In lonely hours companions bright.
These charming women give delight.
Like fathers wise,in duty tried.
To virtuous acts they prompt and guide.
Whenever we suffer pain and grief.
Like mothers kind they bring relief.
The weary man whom toils oppress.
When traveling through life's widerness.
Finds in his spouse a place of rest.
And there abides, refreshed and blest.
Metin Yildirim Antakya
Turkey
As the world turn
In the light of every day.
The bittersweet life begins.
At every sunrise.
Hopes are reborn.
The days were good and bad.
How did the corona viruses
come out?
People are locked in the house.
Bitter fears swept the world.
Some cry, some laugh.
He was neither comfortable nor morale.
They are fluttering and hesitant.
Certainly dark days will pass someday.
The world wants a comfortable world.
Very easy dreams.
It is difficult to implement.
Life is worth living well.

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Yanush Doyniak
Poland
Teatrum nadziei
Przywiązany
do nieba
pasem Oriona
ciężarem dyszla
Wielkiego Wozu
opadam ku ziemi
czego mi jeszcze trzeba
świeci księżyc
a kot Pascali
przy piersi
mruczy
wtedy
na strofach
wzlatuję
na niebiosa
cisza
granatem śpiewa
serce
pisze poemat
gdzieś
w ciemnej dali
płynie
klucz gęsi
w obłokach
do lepszego jutra
Anna Maria Sprzęczka-Stępień
Poland
Dla Pana Stanisława D.
Tutaj mieszka pewien Pan,
nie każdemu może „znan".
Ptasie on nazwisko nosi.
Namaluje,
wycuduje,
gdy poprosi
pan czy pani.
Obraz, szopkę (i ruchomą!) –
rzeczą mnie to jest wiadomą.
„Co, Dziewczyna?" –
Brata pytał.
„Co, Chłopaku?" – do
mnie to.
Taka Jegoż jest logika.
Piotruś autkiem się
rozbijał,
potem autko dał do
Stryja.
Stryj Wnukowi je przekazał –
jeździł Jacek... „wte i nazad"!
Mama Ania aż z podziwu
(dla talentów...Dudka tylu)
wyjść nie może!
Szczęść Mu Mały Jezu,
szczęść Mu Panie Boże!
Pani Marii, Zuzi, Izie i Agacie,
gdzie ich ścieżki:
w Tarnobrzegu czy w Krakowie.
Daj im zdrowie!

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prose 25-30
Anna Maria Sprzęczka-Stępień
Poland
Auntie Stasia
If I were to tell now who is my favourite
family member, I would say it with no
hesitation: Aunt Stasia. Well, of course, along
with my big boy, Jacek.
She lives in a small town of Tarnobrzeg, in
the south-east of Poland. Unfortunately, we
don’t meet very often
nowadays, but once she used to
call in on us every Saturday.
My Auntie is a rather short
woman in her early seventies.
Her plump round face is
framed by a mass of curly fair
hair and her sparkling blue
eyes show her humour and
friendliness. She often wears
casual clothes, but she also
likes to be elegant from time to
time. And she really is, in her
long skirts and well-tailored
and perfectly ironed blouses or
shirts.
Auntie Stasia has a very pleasant
personality. Never have I met a more patient
and kind-hearted person. She always has time
to listen to her grandchildren’s big problems.
She is also very helpful, not only for her family
but also for friends. Quite willingly, my dear
Aunt comes to them and helps with everyday
chores. I remember that once she was asked to
look after a very ill elder woman, and she
didn’t hesitate even for a second.
No doubt, she is generous. Always
remembering my son Jacek, she never comes
without a small gift for him. It’s worth adding
that she’s truly hard-working. Her flat shines
and she always prepares something delicious
to eat for her guests.
My Aunt always seems to be busy. She
spends a lot of time doing the housework,
baking or cooking and so forth and so on.
When she is not at home, she is usually at
church or either visiting her friends or family.
This is a person who really taught me a lot,
just by her own example. I would like to be
such a good human as she is. When you are
with her, you can relax. Although we see each
other occasionally, I still really like to spend
my spare time with my Auntie Stasia.
Cheating Doesn’t Pay
It was a beautiful autumn,
just the beginning: September.
So golden and sunny. People
have been coming back from
their holidays. James too. He
has spent wonderful time in the
countryside, but all good things
must come to an end.
The next day after the
return, first thing in the
morning, James went to the
bank where he worked.
Nobody was there. He switched on his
computer and started realizing his vicious
plan. He opened an account for himself; then
he charged the bank’s account. The money was
finally there!
“It will solve my £ 20,000 problem.” – Jim
sighed with a relief. When he was about to go,
suddenly other employees came in to the
room.
“What are you doing here so early?” – one
of them asked. It was Tom, Jim’s best mate.
“Oh, hmm, so…” – James murmured
nervously. He wasn’t prepared to this turn of
events!

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“Well, I have been so snowed under with
work recently that I thought I could come here
earlier one day to get through it. And here I
am!” What a brilliant and simple answer it
was. At least his colleagues believed him, even
though he seemed to be confused a little bit.
James was quite satisfied and he eventually
calmed down.
“But what am I going to do when they find
out about the fraud? Sooner or later it is going
to draw somebody’s attention.” – James kept
thinking about it. The rest of the day, he was
on pins and needles. But the day finally passed
and nothing, absolutely nothing had
happened.
Next day Jim went to work as usual. With
some dose of
hesitation, he opened
the door of the office
and entered the room.
Everybody was there.
Jim noticed that they
had been gossiping
about something in
low voices. But at the
very moment they saw
him, they became silent.
“The boss wants to see you, Jim. He is
waiting for you in his room.” – Tom said.
Left with no choice, James did what he was
asked to do.
“Good morning, James.”
“Good morning, Mr Harper.” – Jim replied
with noticeable uncertainty in his voice.
“Do you know what I want to tell you? Oh,
I’m sure you know!”
Jim stood still, not being able to say any
single word.
“I should have called the police, but I didn’t.
You’ve been such a good and intelligent
employee! It’s a pity I must say it:
YOU ARE FIRED!!!!!!
Šahdo Bošnjak
Snovi Šehida Ibrahima
ROMAN
13. POGLAVLJE
Sjedili su u bašči, na prostrtoj deki, sami,
pijući crnu kahvu, pušeći ko zna danas koju po
redu cigaretu i šuteći, svaki zanesen svojim
mislima, nastojeći tako posložiti u glavi haos i
pronaći način za rješenje brojnih životnih
problema, nastalih u ova pasija ratna vremena.
Nedaleko od njih
žuborila je Usora dok
se naokolo hvatao
paučinasti mračak i
ugođaj bi bio potpun,
osjećao je Hamid,
samo da nije ovog
prokletog rata, pa
oduševljen ljepotom,
koju je najzad
primijetio, u jednom trenutku prekide šutnju i
progovori:
– Veliko je zadovoljstvo, labude, sjediti
ovdje dok nastupa akšam, pa mi nešto
naumpade ona pjesma: “Ah, meraka u večeri
rane...“
– Baš je lijepo... – složi se izviđač, makar što
ljepota nije dopirala ni do njegovog razuma, a
kamoli do njegovog srca i duše, uzburkane
različitim osjećanjima, nad koju se nadnio
golem, mračan oblak, da se momku na licu,
tom svojevrsnom ogledalu duše, pojavi grč
bola, koji vodnik ne primijeti, što zbog
nadolazeće tame, što zbog buljenja u talase
rijeke. – Nego, kako je na liniji, mislim... ima li
problema?
– Pa, baš i nema... Ovaj, ma nije baš posve da

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nema, ima, kako da nema... Jutros su nas
obavijestili iz Komande da neprijatelj sprema
dosad najveću ofanzivu na Kalošević. Naši
obavještajni izvori javljaju kako im
svakodnevno pristižu velika pojačanja u
ljudstvu, čak otud iz Srbije, pa u oružju i
materijalnotehničkim sredstvima. Stiglo im je
i nekoliko tenkova, sve nove osamdeset
četvorke, glanc iz fabrike. Isti obavještajni
izvori također kažu da su Srbi u završnoj fazi
priprema i da ofanziva može da otpočne
svakog časa. Ovaj put su, izgleda, najozbiljniji
u namjeri da konačno zauzmu ne samo
Kalošević već i Tešanj. Jah, eto,
labude, tako nekako stvari
stoje...
– Proklete četničke hulje!
Ima li drugih novosti?
– Da, tanki smo s municijom
i sa sredstvima za
protivoklopnu borbu. Za BST,
naprimjer, imamo samo jednu
kumulativnu minu. Imamo
doduše dvije zolje i nešto
granata za RB-ove. No, što je,
čini se, najvažnije, asfaltna
komunikacija Teslić – Doboj
dobro je osigurana te nam otud
ne prijeti velika opasnost. Znaju to, sigurno, i
Srbi i neće se usuditi na proboj tim pravcem.
Tenkovi će svakako davati njihovoj pješadiji
veliku podršku, ali mislim da se neće usuditi
na tenkovski proboj ni iz Bugarinovića, zato
što bi im bilo jako rizično, osim ako operacijom
ne bude zapovijedala kakva budala, u što lično
sumnjam jer imaju dovoljno školovanih oficira
iz JNA. Ono, labude, što me posebno raduje,
jeste visok borbeni moral naših boraca, koji,
svi do jednog, prkosno izjavljuju – da četnici
preko njih živih nikad neće kročiti nogom u
Kalošević. Neprijateljski vojnici već vode
verbalni rat s našim borcima. Ma znaš, to je u
psihološkopropagandne svrhe, samo s jednim
ciljem – da sebe ohrabre, a da naše borce i
narod pokolebaju. Baš prekjučer javlja se neki
planinac, veli da dobro poznaje Kalošević jer
da je ovuda progonio stada ovaca na
zimovanje u Posavinu. “Eto nas, balije, za koji
dan vama na kavu u Kalošević.” A onda prijeti:
“Ni pas, ni mačka neće ostati, ni dijete u bešici,
sve ćemo poklati!” Drugi, valjda kroz dogled,
opazio kako nam dijele ručak te, glasom punim
mržnje, dobacuje: “ ‘Rante se, ‘rante, balije, da
za dva-tri dana budete deblji za ražnja!...” Sve i
jedan borac vjeruje da bi četnici svoje prijetnje
i ostvarili, ako bi ušli u Kalošević. I ništa im ne
podiže borbeni moral kao to
uvjerenje! A čuj ovo, Zijo
Mamić, onaj đavo što skida
snajperom čete ko cvjetove pod
šatorom na vašarima ili
proslavama, ne može otrpjeti
pa uzvraća: “Samo vi dođite,
vlasi, da vas ko mnoge četnike
dosad, pošaljemo na onaj svijet,
vašem đeneralu Draži
Mihailoviću na smotru i svetom
Savi na ispovijed!” Na to sa
srpske strane zapljuštaše
žestoke psovke nakon čega se
ponovo javi onaj planinac:
“Turci, je l’ vam promaja u
džamiji dok se molite svome Alavu?!” Time je
podsjećao na nedavni napad kad su
tenkovskom granatom izbušili munaru.
Ponovo ne otrpje Zijo, vraćajući im istom
mjerom: “Čuj, bradata spodobo! Nama
promaha u džamiji, a vašoj dvadeset osmerici
četnika promaha u glavi od naših metaka, pa
ste sutradan u Tesliću proglasili Dan žalosti.
Usto vam je naš Bahrudin servirao granatu
ravno na sto, dok ste večerali u pokoj duši
četnika Mileta. Tom prilikom ste izbrojali
desetak mrtvih i isto toliko ranjenih.
Napadnete li opet, proći ćete mnogo gore nego
tad!...” Bradonje ponovo ljuto opsovaše i

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zaprijetiše kako će nam to za dva-tri dana sve
vratiti, i to s kamatom. Jah, umalo da
zaboravim; ovo što ću ispričati, tebe će,
labude, siguran sam, iznimno zanimati. A onda
se prodera krupan, autoritativan glas, koji se
dotad nije javljao: “Tišina, seljačine
beslovesne, da vojvoda nešto kaže Turcima!”
Na njihovoj strani nastade grobni muk, po
čemu sam zaključio da je veliki autoritet među
četnicima. Onda zovnu: “Ej, balije, da vas nešto
ozbiljno pitam! Ima l’ tu Ibra’ima Bošnjića?!
Studirali smo skupa u Saraj’vu i bili nekad
veliki prijatelji.” “Šta te briga, vlaše!”, odbrusi
neko od naših. “Ako nije tu”, poručuje isti glas,
“pozdravite ga od Đorđa Stanivuka i recite mu
neka odma’ zaboravi staro prijateljstvo.
Odsad smo smrtni
neprijatelji, i sretnemo
li se negdje – zaklat ću
ga zubima, ili mene
neće biti!...” “Tebe,
tebe, vlaše, neće biti!”,
otkresa Meho Šego,
odlažući prazan tanjir
na klupicu pokraj rova.
Međutim, Đorđe više
ništa ne reče, a i neprijateljski vojnici, kao po
nečijoj zapovijedi, prestadoše s daljnjim
provokacijama.
Na ove riječi Ibrahim se lecnu, a u grlu
zastala oskoruša, pa ni gore ni dolje, dok kroz
glavu prolaze sjećanja na Sarajevo, na sretne
dane studentskog siromahovanja. Sjeća se
visokog, crnomanjastog Stanivuka. Plaho
naočit momak. Dijelili su zadnju koru kruha,
zadnju cigaretu. Iz iste su čaše pili jednu koka-
kolu. Sjeća se lažnog imena, Ismet, kad se
udvarao muslimanskim djevojkama. I kako je
govorio da bi volio više od svega da se oženi s
muslimankom. “Da, lažno, lažno... Sve je na tim
bijednicima bilo lažno, dok su s nama zajedno
živjeli. Lažno prijateljstvo, lažno kumstvo,
lažni komšiluk, lažno bratstvo i jedinstvo,
lažno sve. Sad, kad su, najzad, skinuli maske i
pokazali neljudska, zlikovačka lica, tek sad,
ustvari, vidimo ko su. Srbočetnici, fašisti,
napokon su otklonili vječitu dilemu, ako ju je
ikad i bilo, i pred cijelim svijetom pokazali
svoju moralnu bijedu, pokazali su da su zvijeri
i spodobe u ljudskom obliku. E, moj Đorđe, zar
bi me ti ubio?! Da li je moguće da bi na mene
digao ruku, ruku koju sam toliko puta stisnuo,
pozdravljajući te i misleći da stišćem ruku
iskrenog prijatelja, prijatelja koga sam cijenio
i volio kao brata, ruku s kojom sam dijelio
zadnji dinar, zadnju cigaretu?! Čak si i to
zaboravio kako sam nedavno rizikovao vlastiti
život, spašavajući te od razbjesnjelog
Mahmuta. I kako sam sve učinio da budeš
razmijenjen,
energično se
zauzimajući za te kod
svojih nadređenih.
Zaboravio si, eh... Eto,
takav si ti; takvi ste vi!”
– Nešto si se, jarane,
duboko zamislio.
Kanda su ti misli
daleko odlutale? –
prenu ga i vrati u stvarnost prijateljev glas.
– Hah?!... – zbunjeno izusti izviđač.
– Kako tvoja rana? – upita vodnik. I, ne
čekajući odgovor, dodade: – Još jednu heftu pa
ćeš, čini mi se, biti kao nov.
– Heftu?! Hm, dvoumio sam nešto da li da
pođem sutra na liniju. Nakon ovoga što sam
saznao od tebe, sad više nemam dvojbe. Idem,
pa makar i na jednoj nozi.
– Ali, Ibro, oprosti, pa to je ludost... Rana ti
još nije sasvim zacijelila, ugruhan si, psihički
potresen...
– Rana, hm... Sve su to trice i kučine. Rekao
sam ti već da ću se protiv tih zlotvora boriti,
zatreba li, i na jednoj nozi. Uostalom, svejedno
je – poginuo danas ili sutra.

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– O kakvoj ti to, prijatelju, pogibiji? Ta, šta ti
je? Živ čovjek ne ide u mezar. A dok je čovjek
živ, ljudski se nadati.
Ibro duboko uzdahnu, a lice mu se umi
vrelim suzama, koje su pekle kao žar, ali on to
nije niti osjećao kad je rekao:
– Ti se možda i možeš nadati, ali ja ne. Ja
sam sinoć odsanjao svoj posljednji san. Sanjao
sam, labude, vlastitu smrt!... Moj životni krug
se zatvara... To je kraj... kraj... svega!...
Nakon tih riječi, zašutješe, zanijemješe
obojica. Dugo su tako šutjeli, svako zaokupljen
svojim mislima. Onda Hamid prebaci desnu
ruku preko prijateljevog
ramena, zagrli ga i tješeći ga
reče:
– Nemoj da prenagljuješ pri
zaključcima. Sve je to psihički
stres prilikom ranjavanja od
koga se još nisi sasvim
oporavio. Sve će to biti dobro,
vidjet ćeš...
A u mislima je počeo da
strahuje za prijateljev život.
Znao je, kad je smrt u pitanju,
da tu Ibro ima snažan
predosjećaj, intuiciju, šesto
čulo, šta li? Da je taj predosjećaj
čvrsto skopčan sa snovima i da ga još nikad
nije prevario. A, opet, s druge strane, kako
vjerovati da čovjek, obični smrtnik, može imati
te nadnaravne moći?! Kad bi o tome
razmišljao, još nikad ne bi uspio razriješiti tu
enigmu, bolje reći taj paradoks, pa ni sad dok
čuje prijatelja kakao s mukom, i bolom u glasu
nastavlja pričati o sinoćnjem snu:
– Ovo je san koji ću ti zadnji put ispričati. I
samo tebi. Nisam ga ispričao ni roditeljima ni
braći niti ikom drugom, i neću. A tebi mogu, jer
si mi ti najbolji prijatelj, i znam da mi se nećeš
smijati niti ćeš moju priču izvrgnuti u sprdnju,
kako bi to mnogi učinili. Ma, znaš kakvi su
ljudi, puni slabosti. Ali, ne zamjerim im, zato
što smo i sami ljudi. Vjerujem kako ćeš priču
koju ću ti ispričati sačuvati kao tajnu do kraja
života, jer je to i moja želja. Sinoć sam se
osjećao iznimno umornim pa sam legao
neuobičajeno rano, odmah svečeri. Čini mi se
da sam odmah zaspao, a onda su krenuli snovi.
Kao: vraćam se s izviđanja, sam samcit. I
gladan, i žedan, i usto mrtav umoran. Naiđem
tako na jedno osojno mjesto, mala zaravan, na
njoj trava mekahna ko duša. Svježa hladovina
svu je obgrlila da me odmah žeđ minu. Dušek-
trava sama mami, zove da malo prilegnem,
odmorim. Srušim se od umora i
izvalim na leđa pa onako
nalakćen metnem travku
između zuba, odmaram koščice
i uživam, što bi se reklo, u
prirodnim ljepotama. Odnekud
pjevuši slavuj, ma milina ga
slušati, dok pred očima pukla
predivna panorama:
nepregledan kanjon, zarobljen
u zagrljaju s jedne strane
četinarske a s druge strane
listopadne šume. A ja pomislim
kako ovako nekako, možda,
izgleda u Džennetu kadli ti se
iznenada oćuti bat kopita,
prolama se, ali nekako potmulo, kao da dolazi
iz same zemljine utrobe. Obrnem glavu lijevo –
i ništa. Obrnem desno – kad iz šume ispade
jahač na pomamnom vrancu te se stane
postrance spuštati niz strminu. Uh, vidim: k
meni se zaputio! Ustanem, iz pristojnosti, da
barem sjedeći dočekam nezvanog musafira, ili
bolje reći putnika namjernika. Dok mi prilazi
sve bliže, znatiželjno ga posmatram. Brada mu
duga, do pasa, sijeda. Vidim, čovo mi poznat,
kanda sam ga negdje vidio... I sjetim se. Samo,
umjesto zelenog sad je na sebi imao crni
ogrtač, nekako plaho dugačak, gotovo do
zemlje, raskopčan, ispod koga se vidjelo

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kratko crno džube, crne čohali, malo preširoke
čakšire, crne čizme, a na glavi mu vješto
savijena crna čalma, tek navoji joj pričvršćeni
zlatnim kopčama. Na čalmi zlatni znak, ama,
toliko sjajan da u se ne da dugo gledati.
Zabliješti ti oči kao da gledaš ravno u sunce, a
po njemu ispisana meni nerazumljiva arapska
pismena. Za pojasom crne korice iz kojih viri
pozlaćen balčak kratke savijene sablje,
krivošije. Riječju – sve na njemu crno. Pošto,
najzad, stiže do mene, zategnu vrancu dizgin.
Konj ukopa u mjestu sve četiri, a neznanac
uljudno pozdravi:
“Es-selamu alejkum!”
“Alejkumus-selam!”, otpozdravim i u
nevjerici i sa zebnjom iščekujem šta će došljak
dalje reći ili poduzeti.
A on upita,
iznenađujuće blagim,
raznježenim, gotovo
pa očinskim, glasom:
“Jesi li mi rad,
sinko?”
“Jesam, jesam, kako
da nisam?!”, velim, ne
znajući šta drugo da
kažem, sav premrijevši od straha.
“Ja bih malo da sjednem, s tobom koju riječ
da probesjedim pa moram na put. Mnogo me
još sličnog posla čeka, jah!”
Dok je govorio, nije sjahivao s konja,
očekujući, valjda, moje dopuštenje.
“Bujrum, samo izvolite!”, provalim u
nedoumici.
“Eto, sinko, dolazim ti drugi i, posljednji
put”, reče neznanac, sjedajući na travu pored
mene i vadeći ispod džubeta veoma staru
knjigu, požutjelih listova, sličnu Kur’anu, samo
sad u crnom povezu. “Donosim ti jednu
radosnu i jednu mnogo tužnu vijest.”
Na njegove riječi “i jednu mnogo tužnu
vijest” ja se stresoh od groze, a on je sjedio
pored mene, ovako kao ti, mirno listao
nagrižene stranice požutjele knjige i govorio:
“Ovo je, sinko, Knjiga sudbina. Ubrzo ćeš
saznati šta ti je u njoj zapisano. A kako imam
da ti prenesem dvije vijesti: jednu radosnu i
jednu tužnu, ja bih da pođem od one radosne,
jer za tužnu nikad nije kasno.”
Kako je pronašao određenu stranicu, počeo
je da čita polahko, razgovijetno, glasom
dubokim, kao da govori iz duboke kace ili s
nekog drugog svijeta:
“Ti, Ibrahim (Remze) Bošnjić, boriš se za
slobodu svog naroda i svoje zemlje. Boriš se za
slobodnu, suverenu, demokratsku Bosnu i
Hercegovinu; za zemlju jednakih prava i
sloboda za sve njene narode i sve njene
građane, neovisno o
njihovoj vjerskoj,
nacionalnoj, političkoj
ili nekoj drugoj
pripadnosti. To je tvoj
san, san koji i – budan
sanjaš. Tvoj san će se
sigurno ostvariti. Do
njegovog ostvarenja
proći će mnogo
vremena. Prolit će se još mnogo vrele šehidske
krvi. Kolone šehida, najboljih sinova Bosne,
preći će tamnu rijeku, rijeku zaborava, što
razdvaja dunjalučki od ahiretskog života. Na
kraju te natčovječanske borbe tvoj narod će
izvojevati veličanstvenu pobjedu protiv svih
svojih dušmana. Zato što vodi najpravedniji,
odbrambeni rat, sveti rat – džihad; rat za svoje
svetinje: svoju slobodu i slobodu svoje
domovine, za slobodu svoje vjere, svoje
kulture, svojih običaja i svoje tradicije; rat za
mezarove svojih predaka; jer vodi
najpravedniji rat za svoje dostojanstvo i – za
svoj opstanak. Tvoj narod će pobijediti voljom
mog i tvog Gospodara.
Sad je na redu ona druga, tužna, vijest, za
koju, kao što rekoh, nikad nije kasno. Naime,

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dužan sam ti prenijeti da ćeš u borbi na tom
pravednom putu ti uskoro junački poginuti.
Znam, ti si za ovozemaljska poimanja mlad i
htio bi još živjeti. Pored toga, na dunjaluku
ostavljaš najmilije: roditelje, braću, prijatelje,
djevojku, ratne drugove... Sve! Zato je ova
vijest za tebe mnogo tužna. Ali... naređeno mi
je da ti kažem da se zbog toga mnogo ne
žalostiš, sinko. Tvoja smrt nije uzaludna – jer
će tvoji snovi biti ostvareni. Pored toga, ti si
šehid! A to je najveća čast i merhamet, kojom
naš Gospodar nagradi i obraduje jednog
smrtnika. Tvoja duša će u Džennet! Tamo će ti
biti ukazane sve počasti i uživat
ćeš sve blagodati našeg
Gospodara. U Džennetu će
tvoja duša sresti duše tvojih
roditelja, prijatelja, saboraca...
Mnogi od njih bit će, također,
šehidi. U Džennetu ćeš sresti i
dušu osobe do koje ti je toliko
stalo – dušu tvoje Zaime.”
Na samo spominjanje
njenog imena zadrhtao sam
poput travke na buri, poskočio
na noge i uspio da izustim samo
jedno:
“Ali...”
Nije mi dozvolio bilo šta da kažem, upitam,
da glasno zaplačem, da makar ljudski kriknem.
Presjekao me pogledom, i natjerao da
zanijemim, gotovo mi naredivši:
“Ne, ništa me ne pitaj! To je sve što piše u
Knjizi, a što mi je naređeno da ti prenesem. Sad
moram poći.”
Odmah vrati crnu knjigu pod crno džube,
zajaha crnog konja i na polasku, opet uljudno,
pozdravi:
“Allahimanet, sinko!”
“Allahimanet!”, kažem, te se probudim, sav
okupan u znoju.
Zoran Radosavljevic
Hajmo Lagano
Pesak od cvetnog praha..po meni se prosuo
bez straha..Noć se bešumno cepala..svetlost
mesećine obasjava mi sobu..a ti mi kroz snove
šetala. Zato vodiću te... u Spaniju i Portugal, pa
da nam ostanu senke na obali Atlantskog
okeana i sećanja na krečnjačke stene između
peščanih plaža Algarvea... Da po pesku Azurne
obale trčimo bosi... Da nam izlaze žuljevi od
penjanja po stenama kamene
Sicilije..Hajdemo na sever
Portugala, u onaj predivni
region Minjo da ispijamo
zeleno vino i smejemo se
životu... Tvoj zagrljaj peron,
tvoji snovi silazne stanice; tako
biram da dišem u ovom životu...
Probudimo se čupavi. kraj
kreveta načeto vino, a na stolu
pomorandže; još samo da je
Pariz iza roletni..a mi u
Lisabonu... da naućimo
Portugalski kako bih uvek
mogli da dozovemo okean
stihovima Fernanda Pesoe..da mi mirišeš na
okean... i daleke svetove ..da mi mirišeš na
najlešpe snove... Da obučeš naajlepšu haljinu,
otvoriš vino, pojačaš fado i počeš da plešeš po
kući, čekam još samo da se stvorim na ulicama
Lisabona..da trćimo zagrljeni po kiši...
– šta je toliko lepo u tom Portugalu
– sve, na primer Ponte de Lima
da živimo Portugal od 16. veka, kada se
otvorila ulica koja je prolazila preko bašte
portoanskog biskupa; živimo ga od kad živi
Rua das Flores...samo ti, a u tebi sve lepote
sveta... samo ti a u tebi sva ludost i sreča
deteta... jer duša ti je satkana od peska Sahare,

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pločnika Moskovskih ulica, lepote Plave
džamije, glasa fado pevačica i duše Atlanskog
okeana... Krašču te rećima sve manje češ biti
svoja a sve više moja...
Njeno telo miriše na stotine gradova, na
hiljade zabačenih ulica u kojima su pijani
pesnici ljubili muze po poslednji put.miriše na
portugal..njene su dubine najlepši okeani..zato
i sedim i čekam te... negde daleko, na nekoj
ušuškanoj plaži Portugala... Sva si od
skandinavskih vetrova, berlinskih noći, grčkih
maslina i portugalskog vina... vinskih podruma
Porta i snova u bojama Lisabona... Rukama
krvavim od borbe sa njenim demonima
sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te Pompeje u
njoj..Vezuve moj..gasila te prekrasna reka
Sarno.. Bila je rodjena
sa vatrom u sebi.
Čuvala je u dodirima i
mislima, i poklanjala
malo po malo ljudima,
sve dok joj iskra u
oćima nije
nestala.Nestala je
toplina i dobrota koju
je širila..Ljudi su je
istrošili i ostavili... Da joj ližem krvave očnjake
posle životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog
sveta... Da vidamo rane jedno drugom...
klesanjem joj đavoli prošlosti želili oduzeti
dobrotu..borio sam se koliko sam moga da
sačuvam tu njenu anđeosku lepotu... Meni su
godinama krvava stopala, a i dalje istim
putevima moja duša korača... idem njoj u
susret da je čuvam dok opet ne ojača... nemoj
te da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo da bi
lutao... Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao... a ići
ću opet i opet iznova... čujem kako viću izađi iz
zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od lažnih
snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po rodjenju...
pred putokazima spuštam glavu, volim da
idem po sopstvenom nahođenju... kao i biljka
kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno seme...
džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči, dodire i
pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u pogrešno
vreme... Jurim prema njoj danima i noćima... ne
bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad u njenim
oćima... potrudiću se da joj život ne bude samo
od plača... ostaću sa njom dok ne ojača...
Rukama krvavim od borbe sa njenim
demonima sakupljao sam ostatke pepela te
Pompeje u njoj... Vezuve moj..gasila te
prekrasna reka Sarno... Bila je rodjena sa
vatrom u sebi. Čuvala je u dodirima i mislima,
i poklanjala malo po malo ljudima, sve dok joj
iskra u oćima nije nestala.Nestala je toplina i
dobrota koju je širila..Ljudi su je istrošili i
ostavili.. Da joj ližem krvave očnjake posle
životnih poraza, ona da me čuva od celog
sveta... Da vidamo
rane jedno drugom...
klesanjem joj đavoli
prošlosti želili oduzeti
dobrotu... borio sam se
koliko sam moga da
sačuvam tu njenu
anđeosku lepotu...
Meni su godinama
krvava stopala, a i
dalje istim putevima moja duša korača... idem
njoj u susret da je čuvam dok opet ne ojača...
nemoj te da pomislite da tražim izgovor samo
da bi lutao... Kad je Niče plakao, svet je ćutao...
a ići ću opet i opet iznova... čujem kako viću
izađi iz zabluda i uđi u stvarnost, umrećeš od
lažnih snova Ne znaju oni da sam takav po
rodjenju... pred putokazima spuštam glavu,
volim da idem po sopstvenom nahođenju... kao
i biljka kad sama od sebe baci svoje sopstveno
seme... džaba ste štedeli sve te tišine, reči,
dodire i pesme kad se pravi ljudi pojave u
pogrešno vreme... Jurim prema njoj danima i
noćima... ne bole me padovi ali bi me boleo pad
u njenim oćima..potrudiću se da joj život ne
bude samo od plača... ostaću sa njom dok ne
ojača.

41
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essay 31-35
Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim
Tunisia
Story of a solitude
Laughter has always been a part of my life.
I come from an Italian family where, growing
up in the suburbs of Paris, all I heard was
laughter and singing. Laughter very quickly
served as a defense mechanism and was very
useful in fighting my shyness.
Later it was essential to my
socialization.
I have been a Spanish
teacher for sixteen years and
an actor for ten years. In 2016,
I made my most decisive
decision: to go around the
world for a year and make a
documentary about laughter.
As an actor, I wanted to
understand the mechanisms of
humor. I wanted to know if we
could all laugh at the same
things, from Moscow to
Melbourne.
This trip made me a laughter activist. The
common pointof all those I met is that they use
art to heal, denounce or give hope. My most
beautiful revelation was to discover the art of
the clown. Not the circus clown that everyone
knows, but the humanitarian, social clown; the
one who goes to hospitals to make the sick
laugh and to refugee camps to bring a little
comfort.
It is enjoyable to be able to understand the
person in front of you, to see what
psychological leverage you can use to help
them.
This project really took shape when I was in
New York.
Starting in 2014, I spent two years working
at the French high school. I was head of the
language department. I had a lot of
responsibilities, a huge workload, a good
salary. I met someone. We got married. The
relationship didn't work out. We got divorced.
One day I was having lunch with a friend.
She asked me if I was okay. I was at the bottom
of the hole and spontaneously told her that I
had only one desire: to quit my teaching job,
take my backpack, leave and
make a documentary on
laughter. Since I was a kid, I had
always dreamed of going
around the world, but the idea
had been put on hold for a
while. There in this
conversation of depressives
over sushi, the project came to
life.
I really enjoyed teaching but
I already felt that my life didn't
fit me or no longer did. A
feeling. I was beginning to feel
that my relationship to the
world was different. So I dusted off my idea of
a trip and I realized that the project was very
complete in my head. I knew exactly what I
wanted to do.
I could stop everything in New York and
nothing was still waiting for me in France. It
was the ideal moment. From that moment on,
I started telling everyone about it. The project
had a name, a date, a fundraising campaign on
the internet.
It took six months to organize the
departure.
During this time I always felt like I was

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going to chicken out, that I would never get on
the plane. My fear was linked to the idea of the
lack of money on the spot as well as the whole
logistical part. Even the night before the
departure, I slept very badly, I still told myself
that I wouldn't have the courage to leave. I left
New York to return to France and on
September 5, 2016, I took off from Paris to
visit fifteen countries.
This first world tour was unique.
I was very lucky and made many
exceptional encounters. At each critical
moment, I met someone who helped me and
opened my eyes.
My initial idea was that this project would
have a beginning and
an end. I was thinking
of coming back to
Paris to resume a
more normal life.
When I came back, I
realized that this
would not be possible.
I didn't feel like I was
going back, but like I was making a stopover to
see my buddies and my family. As soon as I
arrived, I could already see myself leaving.
This trip turned a lot of things upside down.
The first effect was to detach myself from
the extreme, even sickly consumption of
which I was a slave. When I returned from my
world tour, I arrived at my grandmother's
house where my things were stored, and I had
the impression that the wardrobe was a store.
I was almost ashamed of it. I felt like all this
stuff was defining someone I was no longer. I
had filled myself materially but at the same
time I had emptied myself.
The opposite is also true. As I freed myself
from it all. I became richer.
I am still struggling. When I spend time in
the big cities, where the ads are attacking you,
I still find myself thinking, "I want that!
But this realization has been a great relief.
I managed to cast off a lot of moorings, to
free myself from material ties. I have no rent
to pay, no phone. Nothing to hold on to.
I have no fixed place to live and I still have
the chance to choose when I work, who I work
with and whether I get paid or not.
It has changed my life. I've reached a great
degree of freedom. This feeling is a source of
adrenaline and happiness detached myself
from what people might think of me, even
though the pressure of the standard exists. I
don't have a fixed apartment. I don't have a
fixed couple. I don't
have a fixed income. I
move all the time. So
my friends and family
will always be worried
about me even though
it's still a gentle
pressure. They have
learned to trust me.
I've always been very sociable, but more
and more I appreciate solitude. During long
periods when I am not alone, I feel a real need
to be with me.
I turned forty six months ago.
Now for me the next step is to have my own
artistic and humanitarian café that would
serve as the headquarters of my association.
This would allow me to generate money to be
able to do my missions, but also to invite the
artists I have met during my travels. The idea
is to be able to make known the countries I
have travelled through through their
creations, and not through misery, photos of
kids crying or hungry, etc..
Today, my ambition is to move to Seville,

43
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there is a master's degree in art therapy that
interests me. I am very keen to develop this
aspect and to have even more psychological
acuity. I want to perfect my art and I wish that
my clown workshops help more people and
better.
Moreover, Seville is a city that I know well
and that is changing. Maybe this is the ideal
place to open this café.
Definitely, I feel close to Spain.
For the moment it's working for me to trust
my intuition and my gut. I know myself better
and better. If I spend too much
time thinking about a project,
it's because I don't want to do
it. The "yes, but..." is for me a
"no". It's a matter of instinct.
Thanks to that, the paths I've
taken have turned out to be a
lot cooler than I had previously
imagined.
I'd like to do even more, get
out of the system completely
and be even more respectful of
the environment. Here too
there are limits, we can't afford
everything. But the better
things go, the more I feel like I'm eighty
percent in tune with who I am, what I think
and what I want to be.
I define myself as a forty-year-old French
Italian, teacher, actor, author, clown and
globetrotter.
From now on, benevolence and gratitude
bathe my relationship to the world and to the
Other. I have the impression that even the
universe responds to me differently.
It makes me laugh.
Bagawath Bhandari
Bhutan
Peace in every fist…
Every blossom holds peace,
Ambassadors of serenity are bees,
Every dew dances in peace,
Amid breathtaking caress.
Every shaft of sun spreads peace,
And love is eased,
Every drop of rain descends
with peace,
And warms everyone akin to
fleece.
Every smile is a hope of peace,
Every motherly touch is nice,
Every stream sings for peace,
Wanting not to be in piece.
Every country aspires for
peace,
With law, order and standing
police,
Every heart race for peace,
In its rhythmic beats.
Everyone hopes for peace,
In the lonely streets,
Let us fight for peace,
Leaving no crease.
Peace be at every home,
In every holy song,
Peace be the weapon of our generation,
To move forward with determination.

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confabulation 3646
Michael Ondaatje
The term warlight was used to describe the
dimmed lights that guided emergency traffic
during London's wartime blackouts. The word
aptly describes the atmosphere of this
haunting, brilliant novel from Ondaatje (The
Cat's Table), set in Britain in the decades after
WWII, in which many significant facts are
purposely shrouded in the semidarkness of
history. The narrator, Nathaniel Williams,
looks back at the year 1945, when he was 14
and "our parents went away and left us in the
care of two men who may have been
criminals." Nathaniel and his older sister,
Rachel, are stunned to
discover that their
mother's purported
reason for leaving
them was false. Her
betrayal destroys their
innocence; they learn
to accept that "nothing
was safe anymore." To
the siblings' surprise,
however, their designated guardian, their
upstairs lodger, whom they call the Moth,
turns out to be a kind and protective mentor.
His friend, a former boxer nicknamed the
Pimlico Darter, is also a kindly guide, albeit
one engaged in illegal enterprises in which he
enlists Nathaniel's help. The story reads like a
nontraditional and fascinating coming-of-age
saga until a violent event occurs midway
through; the resulting shocking revelations
open the novel's second half to more
surprises. The central irony is Nathaniel's
eventual realization that his mother's heroic
acts of patriotism during and after the war left
lasting repercussions that fractured their
family. Mesmerizing from the first sentence,
rife with poignant insights and satisfying
subplots, this novel about secrets and loss may
be Ondaatje's best work yet.
Agent: Ellen Levine, Trident Media Group.
(May)
Giovanna Casapollo
Il gesto di Caino
Il libro Il gesto di Caino (Einaudi, 2020) di
Massimo Recalcati esordisce prendendo in
considerazione il testo biblico che definisce la
violenza come vera aspirazione a distruggere
l’alterità per ambire alla “propria
divinizzazione, il desiderio dell’Uomo di
essere Dio”.
In questa spinta alla
violenza riconosciamo
l’illusione di rendere
raggiungibile questa
meta.
Contrariamente al
mondo animale, in cui
la violenza è legata alle
necessità naturali
dell’organismo di
difesa e di attacco, la violenza umana è sempre
legata all’alterità che limita la nostra libertà.
Per questa ragione Freud, accogliendo il detto
biblico, considera il gesto di Caino come il
riconoscimento della natura crudele del
genere umano, pulsione criminogena
dell’inconscio che ne caratterizza la vita:
nell’uomo vi è sempre la spinta a liberarsi
dell’alterità, dell’Altro che ne compromette
l’unicità e quindi l’aspirazione a riconoscersi
in Dio.
Un altro elemento che giustifica il gesto di
Caino è l’invidia che abbiamo visto comparire
nel caso di Adamo ed Eva, che si lasciano
irretire dalle parole del serpente la cui spinta
invidiosa nei confronti di Dio lo porta a
diffamarne la legge che proibisce l’accesso

Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020

Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020

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Taifas Literary Magazine no. 4, October, 2020