Taifas Literary Magazine No. 12, June, 2021

2 authors ... p. 2

editorial ... p. 3

poetry ... p. 6

prose ... p. 27

essay ... p. 36

confabulation ... p. 39

3 authors ... p. 47

2

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 12, June, 2021

coperta2 2 authors

Dr. Prasans Kumar Dalai

India

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

Born and die!

I want to born and die with you!

To spend all moments with you.

I know you are with me.

The first thing that I see.

I want you to be.

All the love inside me is sleeping.

You can share the love that I have been

keeping.

I want to feel every beat of

your heart.

That may be regret.

I don't want to loose by

the time.

I knew one day you will be

mine.

I know you don't want to

leave me.

Cause, the love inside me

has been sleeping.

Now the love that I have

been keeping.

Just for you!

Some one,like you could love me!

You can't place no one above me.

Is this feeling of two hearts?

Only you can answer!

I used to keep dreaming on or just forget you?

God knows,you will knew.

I have forget all the words you have spoken.

No regrets of my hear is broken.

I have loved you for a million years.

Did mistake this for a real love?

That only you can answer.

Or keep dreaming or forget you.

Or say you love me too!

Gordana Andonovska

Macedonia

An empty promise

He swore eternal love...

He said you love me...

He promised me that

together we would go

to the shining rainbow...

Your promises made me stand

firm in the storm of life...

I greeted every trouble with a smile...

I was brave...

Nothing could break me...

But... You left me...

You left with a full

suitcase

of my unfulfilled dreams...

I was left with a broken

heart,

staring at the desert of my

soul...

There are no more tears

in my eye...

It dried up...

Your promise remained

floating somewhere

in the silence of my heart

tormented by pain...

Sometimes I come back

to pray for love...

I return with my head bowed...

without a glimmer of hope...

There is only sorrow between us ...

That ever... Maybe...

Our eyes will meet...

And ..in them if there

is any spark left from that strong

love...

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

3


editorial 3-4

Ana Smiljanic

Serbia

Making a pledge

It was summer and the heat burned her

shoulders and melted her make-up, while the

silky dress revealed her bronze thighs as she

walked. She herself stared at her body curves

and felt dizziness while walking.

Anna Fonteg would soon pass a shop

selling fine crystal vases,

porcelain figures, silk

tablecloths, and other

wonders, of which some

people’s hearts beat

stronger. And, if the vase

she liked was still in the

shop window – so

magnificent and tall – she

imagined it in the hallway

on her grandmother’s old

rustic table with plenty of white roses…If the

vase wasn’t sold, it would be theirs! And she

wouldn’t stop loving, she wouldn’t stop giving

herself and daydreaming of life in two. The

beauty of the soul was reflected in a crystal

glitter this time.

She stood for almost a full minute,

catching air, breathing in the splendor of the

imagined space and smelling the intensive

scent of hundreds of roses that she could not

get out of her head. She nourished her eyes

with beauty, invigorated her heart and

accelerated her pace. She noticed the

passersby’s gaze fixed on her and spoke to

herself over and over again…Yes, I love! Don’t

you get it?! I love!

“I’m in the shop. I’ve just stopped to buy

Bajadera sweets, and I will be home in half an

hour.” – I’ve just texted her. Whenever she

heard that CLICK, which meant a new text

message, her body shuddered, her thoughts

wandered away and she remembered the

previous night and the deep breakthrough.

The face of a woman in love was like an open

shell. The pearly glow in the sclera revealed

her heart secret. Could

this love last while I was

alive?! The CLICK

followed, and this time I

got a photo. Out of the

open bag came a box in

cellophane – that of the

Bajadera sweets. I knew

it! The mutual feeling of

besottedness fascinated

and amazed us at the

same time; it lifted us to unprecedented

heights and provoked laughter followed by

gentle, long kisses whose strength made us

feel exhausted. I’d never kissed like that.

Anna’s kiss was special. And I didn’t expect it

to be like that, but it was, it fell on my lips like

a hurricane, like a tune, a bite of the lips that

made you lose yourself in it and made your

blood freeze. The kiss was like a tug, hundreds

of tugs falling on the corners of my lips and

then slowly prickling, followed by a gentle

licking resembling a balm that healed the

wound. When lust reached its peak, when it

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4


almost started to torment both body and soul,

there was a period of those deep, real kisses

that touched the palate and made me wonder

whether her absorption into me excelled my

penetration into her. Choking, yes, it was

similar to choking. And I never stopped

screaming with excitement in my head and

checking whether our lips were warmer and

wetter than the thing I was looking for with my

hand under my navel.

“It’s sharp five now. So the alarm would

sound in an hour. I’m afraid I’m going to have

a crazy day and that I’m

going to fall asleep at

work again”, she said.

“It’s only five. So we

still have a lot of time.

Besides, this is one of the

first days in May. We still

have an afternoon for

Zemun and a walk by the

river. We won’t be able to

do this in front of the

passersby. Do not complain. There’s no reason

for it. Please.”

The white nights of St. Petersburg

experienced in an apartment, the white bed

sheets instead of street lamps, the feelings

riveted in the senses of two bodies and the

simultaneous invocation of God or the devil,

resembled a double stake in poker. In the

moments of complete madness, I started to

remind her how good we felt, by drawing her

attention to the looks of the passersby

directed at us or even by taking the lyrics I

wrote to her and reading them aloud over and

over again, only to leave them on the night

table beside my headboard. The feeling of

constant love hunger engulfed us like a furious

wind that whooshed, pulled, tore us apart and

threw us at each other in such a way that we

were unable to breathe. The dreadful,

indecipherably deep chasm we used to drag

along with us was almost filled. I saw her

tremble and I just said, “You’re eager.” I saw

her crying and losing the ground beneath her

feet the moment I mentioned that it was too

late for one thing. It was too late to have kids.

Upon hearing this, she

opened her mouth, as a

silent expression of pain,

and a tear streamed down

her cheek as she moaned

heartbroken with the

thought of her offspring

being irretrievably lost,

while her eyes gave out an

expression of such a deep

sorrow that it seemed as

if someone had started to tear her hand off. At

the time when it seemed the world’s end was

approaching she smiled at me in a manner she

did twenty years ago – there she was,

unbreakable and loyal, repeating my name

until she became overwhelmed with

happiness and laughter, increasingly adamant

to receive this summer’s gifts and flourishing

nights.

Although she fearfully climbed the steps

of my soul every day, as if facing execution by

shooting or waiting to be crowned, Anna

decided to give it a try, to believe, to give our

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relationship a chance. And I carried her from

one room to another, kissing her body so

carefully as if I sanctified the place and telling

her that she was more beautiful than any

woman I had met. In moments like these her

happiness was so great that she could barely

stand on her feet.

Sometimes I found her on the balcony,

worried and thoughtful, staring at the linden

tree outside the window. She could remain

silent for a long period of time and enjoy the

shade, as if she had some special sense of

symbiosis with the nature

reflected in her eyes. And

the linden tree, the linden

tree seemed to extend its

branches towards her as

if they were hands trying

to reach her, and it

seemed as if they together

made a golden number. I

believe she could have

been an inspiration to a

fantasist who could paint her or write a few

chords in her glory. And it would happen

during the summer rain. Since one could not

imagine Anna without the rain and the wind.

The rain as a symbol of the shadow resembling

a barbell over her eyes and the wind as the

pursuer of her restless spirit and the freedom

she enjoyed. She did not like injustice, she

believed in prophetic powers of lightning and

loved Tesla. One night, while we were sitting

completely naked in a linden’s embrace, I

asked her if she would ever cheat on me. She

shook her head decisively and was out of

breath for a moment before she could ask me

the same question. I laughed and said to her,

completely convinced in what I was saying,

“How could you think of that? And who could I

possibly want beside you?”

It has been many years since then. My

hair has already turned gray and I have made

my first million. This was how I explained my

reasons to her, as I recall. The event has fallen

into oblivion. You ask if I loved her? Yes. I did.

But time has inevitably done its part, it divided

the memories into the good ones and the bad

ones. And life went on like

a waterfall - its water

washed the stones as so

many summers washed

away the stormy clouds of

her eyes and so many

winters made the tingling

sensations disappear

from my skin. Anna had

several loves after that.

Her kisses were never the

same again, but I knew they were not losing

their strength. And all would have been long

forgotten if it hadn’t been for the old linden

tree watching old movies and persistently

hitting my windows once and then at night.

And me?! I, gray-haired and older, do not

know now why I kept telling her stories of our

living together, why I joked and made

pledges…

Translation: Milena Nikolić


6


poetry 6-25

Rezauddin Stalin

Bangladesh

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Days of Crucifixion

Translated by: Kushal Bhowmick

(13)

Rising and sitting in the South-East, love with

fire

Gave birth to Jesus again in the angry

Jerusalem

Nobody cares the

pronunciation of plants

With the organic sweat of

the farmer

No worries about the

bowl's order of bread

This city belongs to them,

the poets think

He buys dreams in

exchange of moon's

currency

He has a sky

And a home inside

He sleeps in the bed of air

Take tea sitting on an ethereal chair

He creates letters with fire

And made poetry by cheese

There are no clouds in the sky of idiots

The Lord does not touch the grain of their eyes

They think all technology belong to their father

Google vomits their wishes desires

There is no place for flies to go

Only the roar of cockroaches

Only the procession of ants

Only the competition of abandoned garments

The naked cry of notation at naked time

All the clowns frauds are singing battle songs

(14)

All the watchmen guard the school in groups

All children take lessons of stones

All teachers are sentries of prison

(15)

The unprejudiced understands the South-

West episode

The organised anger opens the story of life

All the enthusiastic

animals of departure land

The children feeding the

thirsty squirrel

The hungry monkey is

getting on shoulder

And running away with

biscuits

The green trees of the

island are singing

The song of water scarcity

The birds are taking of

days to come

The sacrificial animals tied in front of the

house are crying

The dog, running with the Lord's car is panting

The car, thinking it is the victim, chasing the

Ping-Pong ball

Rats were crushed while crossing the road

The teenager is running after the butterfly in

the park

The crow is shouting that evening is coming

Few vampires from an unknown place are

entering the attic

Rebel fish breaking the aquarium came to the road

The rooster is chasing his partner for

returning home


7


And the animals that are in the forest

And the animals that are in the zoo

And the animals that are guinea pigs

And those who are reincarnated

Terrible

Horrible

Inhuman

Victims of miserable cruelty

(16)

This huge animal world is against compassion

Participated in the revolution of change of

days

They came down the road

Blood in every street

The fragrance of

gunpowder on the road

The thirsty alphabet

Out of this bloody place

Everyone is walking

towards the promised

land.

(17)

Upward and Downward:

from ten directions

The appendix comes in zigzag way

The event dies on the very first day

Rules the second day

Cry dies on third day

And the surprise on the fourth

Dreams of life are made with hunger

Aspirations with waiting

Panic with uncertainty

Now, no animals return home everyday

No life is subject to notation

No anger lasts in love

Our agitation is fried with thunder

Blindness is created by love

Breathing creates the

tempest

(18)

Backbone is made with

surprise

Protests are with biasness

Here is not the end of

everything

Not even the beginning

And our poetry

Not mere meaningless words

Now cotton is flying automatically from the

eyes of cities

Fluent smoke from the ears

The city is being purified on the thorny beds of

hospitals

They are listening to the peddler's squeaking

entreaty

Vehicles suffering from pretend-fever are

standing on one day

Bread is turning on the wheels of the rickshaw

Nose and ears of blood are keep rotating

The cities are reclining in a relaxed memory

Don't think my darling—

If someone gives you the sky

I will give you the Sun.

If he gives you the rain

I will give you the tree,

More precious than diamond.

I will give you the fastest boat

If anyone gives you the river.


Courage


8


If someone lights a chandelier

I will fill the path with starlight.

If he gives you a golden nose-ring

I will make the same with the rainbow.

If someone gives an anklet

I will give you the river's splosh.


If he promises you with a golden book

Simply I will give you the alphabet

Of my mother-tongue.

If anyone gives you the worldwide house

I will give you only a full-length sari

Just to cover your hidden organs.

Translator: Ujjal Ghosh

Binoculars

Returns to helpless

childhood as a horserider

of memories

When everything was

worthy

Peanut chocolate ice cream

Till today the parakeet

bought at the fair

Comes and sits on the

shoulder

The lips are red as before

Hot jelebi pulls tongue

Keeps it long

With a laugh Papad breaks in my palm

Binoculars bought with a little savings

Look around in ecstasy

And with the magic of the jinns

How amazing everything becomes big

Man- nature

Everything exists on the continent of memory

The moon still goes to sleep

In my pocket

The sun rises late in the west

Even today, newspaper headlines are tied to a

hook

wireless binoculars of Jessolin are printed in

new stars

But I’m looking for what I bought in my

teenage years

That’s the infallible telescope

once again I will see everything big

Man and nature

Rezauddin Stalin

Rezauddin Stalin is a well-known poet in

Bangladesh and beyond and is born on 22nd

November 1962 in Jessore,

Bangladesh. He has done his

Bachelor's degree in

Economics and MA in

Political Science from Dhaka

University. He is the former

Deputy Director of Nazrul

Institute where he was

employed for 35 years.

Stalin’s poems got translated

in most languages in the

world and he is also a wellknown

TV anchor and media

personality in Bangladesh.

Stalin is the founder and

chairman of the Performing Art Center and is also the

senior editor of Magic Lonthon - a literary

organization.

He has received many awards and some

accolades are:

Darjeeling Natto Chokhro Award India (1985),

Bangla Academy (2006), Micheal Modhushudhan

Dutta Award (2009), Shobho Shachi Award West

Bengal (2011), Torongo of California Award

USA(2012), Writers club Award California USA

(2012), Badam Cultural Award California USA

(2012), City Ananda Alo Award(2015), West Bengal,

India, Centre Stage Barashat Award (2018),

Journalist Association Award UK (2018) and Silk

Road Poet Laureate Award Xi’an China (2020).

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9


Dr. Suresh Chandra Sarangi

India

The art of painting

When you paint a tree,

the tree tell you something.

The tree gives you

It's significance.

The beauty of it,

the quietness, the movement,

The shades, the depth and the shape.

The flutter of a leaf

all tell you something,

and you paint,

you don't merely copy a

leaf,

but you want to express

the feeling of the tree.

But in expressing ,

If your mind compares

Your work with one

of a great painter,

Then you cease to paint.

Dr. Minti Gogoi

India

It is really a hard time for me

As I am suffering from three

I am suffering from

Deep depression

Illness

Change of mental conditions.

My thoughts are blowing

Happiness to sorrow

Fortune to misfortune

Voice of Hard Time

Love to hatred

Friendship to enemy

There is no freedom to speak

Fresh air to breath

Clean water tto drink

And a sustainabke place to live

How can I say?

I am on my way

As you are not with me

How can I keep

Good faith on my deeds?

Esteem frustration makes

me spritless

How can I get Absotute

Bless?

Bijayalaxmi Rath

India

Our own time

"It is our own happy time,

Without interference let's

shine"

My love's passionate love note

Soars my soul up and up.

Makes me forget the world's rotation

Reach to your world without hesitation.

Freeze my time with a wink

Squeeze to my love in a blink.

Passionate embrace with sweet kisses

Love grows deep in night's silence.

Night glitters to its most

Love lamps dazzle with lots of hope.

Melancholic silence speaks a lot

Demands our heart's love utmost.

Merging with feelings and emotions

Loving hearts turn each other's potion.


10


Dr. Sahadev Behera

India

Leena Rajan

India

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Promise

Promise is not a single word in the dictionary ,

It has it's own power and functionary.

It carries the meaning of sense of trust and belief,

That is a high quality of condition to keep for relief.

It's an oath and bond with words of heart,

Never destroy the faith between or part.

It's a commitment to keep

the words for a period of

time,

And it also a hard task to

intake as a lime.

Everything in the world,

tie up with a promise,

To allow all the action and

reaction as in wise.

Swear to do the things or pay as you decide,

Never betraye anybody to die or suicide.

Promise is an agreement to do with

collaboration,

We can say honour of word, parole or

revelation.

It is a bit of condition to bid and assertion,

To win the challenge with strong affirmation.

We promise to help others, be kind, and love

with respect,

That makes our life happiness and live with

perfect.

Resilience after falls

Sun after night, brightly comes out with light

of life and hope,

Succumbs, if it to failure, no day will follow,

with life's scope.

Spring lacks blossoms and leaves, if river is

ever dried up,

So is its disability to invite rain forming clouds

of water drop.

Which river is on Earth

that never dries up, and

trees never whither,

Which day is there

without night, following

brilliant rays' shower?

World would have been in

darkness and in dryness

due to lack of water,

Water from rains creates leaves to trees that

give shades in summer.

If we cannot remember our failures, we have

lost greatest of Gurus,

Ingenious lessons learnt from Gurus like,

faults, unfulfilment and mistakes,

If we change our outlook, with resilience, we

are uplifted, after failures,

Imitating sunshine, the gold to be found on

Earth, after darkness.


11


Elizabeth M. Cahimbing

Tarlac - Philippines

Rain

My heart flooded in tears

Left me without a word over the years

I was like drifted apart from soaking rain

Exhausted and all my tears went down to drain

Like rain keeps pouring down on my cheek

Tormented heart, let me fix the leak

Walking through rain dispels my uncertainty

Crashing the pains of immaturity

A rainbow of hope appears

in a complacent mood

Strikingly silhouetted

against sullen mood

Lungi Shigo Msusa

Sauth Africa

Victory is green

now

Time in an hourglass

As beautiful things pass

They're slowly falling to grave

Leaving so much one can save

Ozone layer is dying on our watch

Our survival, a gaseous death trap

Industrial revolution, manmade suicide

Layer by layer we chasing doomsday

Fourth industrial revolution when, who;

Global warming, who's really responsible;

Oxygen is getting less and less, why;

Green gas emulsion, decades away why;

Inquisitive child who's answering you;

Greedy skull who's money is it anyway;

Tell me why your oxygen gas tanks visible;

Ventilated underground hideouts why;

Save the children wings of existence

Greedy skull has ate the apple of sin

Digging wealthy resources started a never

ending dark revolution, victory is green now

Dusmanta Choudhury

India

Her Golden Tresses

Her love, in her heart shall dwell

For the noble cause of life's fuel

Knowing all that so

glitters here

From the sky,her voices I

do hear

Drinks bitter juice,draws a smile

On her rosy lips,none can revile

What a soul that God ever made

As a blue lotus in a holly cascade

Neither the storm nor

hurricane

No dark, no light,but

God's feign

Beholds she all , but

stands still

Finds no alteration, at any

thrill

Flows a dulcet in her holly voice

Fail all sweet lyrics,her to rejoice

No poet so tries to reveal her wit

Unravished is her lore's every bit

Tumbles often her golden tress

About her face as nimbus bless

Gathering all beauties in life & soul

None on earth can ever her cajole


12


Sherife Allko

Sugar Zedna

Albania

Philippines

My childhood

Ponder

In the meadows and pastures, free running

like a beautiful laurel.

I forgot the lawns where the cattle

grazed on the wet grass.

With my little breasts,

collecting daisy flowers, primrose.

In life,

We are hurled

With daily battles

Some we thought

We'd never win

Eh! I do not know what song

murmuring in silence

with my childish lips,

but I know I always sang

happily, and my eyes

shone endlessly.

Sleep gripped me under

the walnut tree that

whispered like a sleepy

lullaby,

when I woke up, I was

looking for my mother

through tears and sobs.

One day passed, others passed,

and I have hair with a comb on my shoulder,

I left for the field to work

like a little farmer

together with my grandfather, my uncles.

And the years went by one by one,

how fast I grew and gained weight.

I remember them with a lot of nostalgia

my childhood years, where the eyes

they shone like stars in the sky.

But as we ponder

Meek sages gain.

Roaring rogues lose.

A witty and cautious

Approach to any

challenge

Is our first line of defense.

Before we grab our spears

And aim at our foes.

As mighty leaders profess:

All's that the psyche envision,

The physique can accomplish.

Meditate.

We might need to examine

our innate enemy first...

Ourselves.

Now my childhood,

I see it in my grandchildren.

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13


Mahanaj Parvin

Bangladesh

Mahanaj Parvin

Bangladesh

Feel

Simte

My thoughts take care of you,

Your presence in the letter of thought,

A thousand colors of love story fly,

My thoughts pick up on your memory.

But why are your thoughts so inconsistent?

Why is there so much dust in the body of

thought?

Who chains the legs of

thought!

Who robs your thoughts!

Gândurile mele au grijă de tine,

Prezența ta e-n litera gândului

O mie de culori ai unei povești de dragoste zboară

Gândurile mele se adună pe memoria ta.

Dar de ce gândurile tale sunt atât de

inconsecvente?

De ce-i atâta praf în trupul gândului?

Cine leagă picioarele

gândului!

Cine jefuiește gândurile!

Translated by Bogdana

Găgeanu

Dasharath Naik

Traducere de Bogdana

Găgeanu

India

United we stand

Forgetting all the narrowness

Let's be one and united;

We are but one race,

Human race ;

Do realise

This.

United we stand'nd divided

We fall ; truly said it is;

Terrorism terrible

Kills enmasse,lo;

Humanity

At risk.

Ego,

Racism ,

Casteism ,

Regionalism etc

All 're means to make

Us fall undoubtedly;know it.

Save

Yourself;

Saving mankind

Urgent need of hour

Forget not;play yo'r role

Make world a united whole.


14


Mihai Katin

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Hiden faces

Hiden faces

Yes, hidden faces

We each own them,

We make them like a strange spider

He weaves inside

Strange canvases,

In which the words and faces of the world are

caught

Fragments of souls and hurried steps,

Faces we show discreetly,

Involuntarily

or

knowingly,

Perverted or cynical!

When the everyday face,

The one we'll freeze with

one day at the end of the line

He has to stay away,

From that gregarious

instinct

To survive and win!

The faces of fear, hatred,

perversio

Anguish,

Forbidden Pleasures,

Greedy nonsense,

Rapacity and sadism!

Few hidden faces are innocent,

Forgiving or sensitive,

Or if they are they remain so hidden

So hard to find them!

Even if in a fit of guilt

We still want to wear them

They are lost!

Maybe forever!

Because we can't wait to unlock it

Those childish doors

Those doors of tears and love

Because there are so many sentimental

surrogates

So that the faces of light

They're useless,

We wear the right ones

Urban jungle!

And we feel like carnivores

Run on behalf of our progress,

Towards the last desert,

In which hidden faces

They will fall one after another,

Like blind snake skins

What else is he looking for?

The last drop of rain…

Ramina Herrera

Peru

Night

In the absolute

circles and squares

darkness

a little light

it sneaks through the

crack

at some point,

as

I do not know

I only know that it is light

start to light up my eyes

that every time

they observe better,

I see the atoms

the thoughts

the air

the mystery


15


Mili Das

Kolkata India

Shanta Farjana

Bangladesh

I have to win this fight.

Death scares me all the time.

But I wouldn't be afraid.

Society is scaring me.

People are scaring me.

The government is scaring me.

All the news channels are

scaring me.

If I keep my eyes on the

newspaper,

i can only see the fire of

the furnace is burning.

We don't know when this

fire will be extinguished?

But I don't get scared so

easily.

No one is giving me

courage.

I made myself brave.

When someone scares me,

I sing,i dance,i read and write.

Whenever I have time ,

I talk with my poetry.

And smiles like crazy with joy.

No one can keep me well,

Only I can keep myself well.

I will back

If the body doesn't accompany me,

I know my mind will accompany me.

I must return after winning this epidemic.

I'll be back.

I have to win this fight and I have to.

Eyes

Every human being has three eyes

Two eyes; everyone can see

Two eyes; can see everything

But, in the deepest corner of the mind

That third eye does not know how to blink

Not everyone can see that eye

That eye never cries

Never laughs

Never becomes gloomy

Always stays silent

The eye is vibrant in the

bend of everyone's heart

wave.

Robbers third eye is blind;

Can't see the wailing of

the people.

The eyes of some doctors

are trickish;

As it’s the matter of

amused; patient bended

by test-drug as burden.

The eye of a few unborn men believes in

magical powers; 24 hours finding the triangle

inside of the woman.

And, the eyes of the public representative are

empty!

They have no past-history, no futureconsciousness.

They just drop their hands and feet to fulfil the

current bag.

And that hiding eye of a woman;

Sometimes desert

Sometimes sea

Sometimes a reeling hurricane

However, not everyone can see it...

Because, not everyone sees...


16


Sudha Dixit

India

There’s Reason To Betray

Radhika Tytler

India

Lonesome but content

I am so sorry my love!

With a heavy heart I say

I must bid you goodbye

I cannot here stay

You had been good to me,

Did not, ever, betray

But something has come up

And I’ve to go away

It’s painful for me to

Think of those rapturous

days

When all was hunky-dory,

No work and only play

We loved each other but

that

Was never on display,

Still the troubles and

doubts,

We, always, kept on bay

But now I must declare

With anguish and dismay,

I have to leave the town, ‘twas

A destiny that went astray

I will never forget you

I’ll wait for you anyway

I don’t know whom to blame,

Maybe God’s feet of clay

Don’t be so cross dearest

There must’ve been a compulsion

No one becomes disloyal,

Unless there is some reason

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I stand and talk to the sky

In the evening time

The pretty clouds pass by

Smiling at my well being

I am lonesome

But content

I have achieved my goals

With statisfaction on every road

I have laid my foundation

well

Standing rooted into the soil

I did my hard work

And now I live at ease

Lonely a bit I feel

But suppress this feel

With my capabilities

There is so much in this

world

Yet to be achieved

I have one mind and two

hands

I am confident

To labour ahead

This world is a field

We sow and plough

The crops of abilities

Will surely harvest

Bringing joy in every season

I am talking to my dearest sky

Who rains on my field

And I thank you for your Godly presence

And for giving me a listening ear

Filling the vacuum in my heart

And I see the night has come

With stars glittering all over

In the mighty sky

And I shall take leave

And sleep with a sigh!!!


17


Punya Devi

India

Nnamdi Patrick

Nigeria

"Equivalency"

Who can tolerate equality in reality

If all the people will achieve the peak

Where you are standing

Will not you be apprehensive

If all of your friends

Become intelligence brave

Wise rich and healthy as you are

Will not you burn in

comprehensive

No never nobody can

screw these

With heart and soul

Because everyone has his

own logic

Sanity vanity liberty

purity

As well as remission and

emotions

But all the people could have

Dreamt a dream of equality

That our hearts should be

As deep as an ocean

Our visions should touch the

Last horizon

At the moment of distribution

We can follow the rule of the sun

Because we must realize the truth that

Our mother the earth has dedicated

Her fertile bosom to all her children

Bringing back humanity

The world today is filled with bodies,

But without the sight of souls anywhere near.

A world where humans have forsaken love,

Replacing it with the quest for gratifications.

I wish for a world filled with humans who love.

A world where peace is sancrosant and

revered.

I pray for a world where

humanity comes first,

Before

religions,class,race,

colour and gender.

I wish for a world where

there's no war,

No genocides, xenophobic

madness and slavery.

A place where every man

is equal and respected.

Not because of status but because he's human.

That world is achievable and realistic,

If only we come together as one and believe.

The world must learn that no matter what

happens,

We're all the world has left; humanity.

(Nnamdi patrick wenga,is a poet, peace

ambassador and teacher from Nigeria. He is

globally acclaimed and his poems have been

published on international journals and

magazines.)


18


Malak Nora Hammadi

Algeria

*quiet moment*

I wish I could escape from all the hustle and

bustle.

How precious is a moment of calm to seize and

celebrate with myself my loneliness.. this

period I prefer the dimensions of my room, it

is enough for me

To create a world of truth far from the false

world

On my small table

inhabits a lot of

texts..these texts are

scattered here and

there..like cold days with

incomplete ideas..

Since when did the

warmth escape from

between my lines.. he ran

away without telling me..

or is this my choice?

In the corners of the room

a lot of crazy ghosts roam..

They steal any idea that flies in the space of the

room.

I do not deny that they share sorrows with me..

they share this boring absence.. when will you

return?

Here in this small corner..I exercise absolute

freedom..free from subordination to the laws

of mankind..free from the constraints of

customs

At this moment I want to be stripped of my

soul and everything that connects me with

life.. to be unknown.. completely forgotten..

Without an identity... to erase my name from

existence...

If I could restrict my feelings and feelings

within these dimensions.. but she struggles,

packs nostalgia in a suitcase and travels

against my will.. with flocks of birds on a

journey of death

Open the door of the memory cupboard.. the

wet messages fall out of it waiting for me to

open them, but curiosity about me took a

vacation for a while and can't come back..

I just want to lie on my

couch and stare at the

ceiling.

This couch smells like the

dead.

I try to take a deep

breath..but I can't..maybe

the room air is not

enough..or the oxygen has

left it..from a hole

What he's going through..

but I have to breathe to feel my presence

Just for a moment.. and then I don't mind

receiving death

Like any person who lived and then died.. not

to practice death while I am alive

I open the window and the sound of the wind

attacks me.. the sound of the wind hurts me.. a

longing burns me.. and kills me with longing..

it carries with it the voice of the absent.. I come

back in a hurry to close myself on it..

I'm breathing slowly..with difficulty..I don't

have full awareness

Darkness sneaks into my features..we blend

and become one piece..close my eyes..and

practice my daily coma..

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19


Tshewang Norbu

BHUTAN

His Soothing Nostalgia

Untold words remained buried,

with a pyre of melancholic stories,

Wondering to unfurl sacred secrets,

to her juvenile doting angel.

Alas! as he awaits for the glorious day,

to usher renewed hope of existence,

But fear hindering barred his words,

pouring out from his

dying soul.

Scarlet rosy roses

enveloped her beauty,

comforting her visit as a

glamour of heaven,

And as he rambled amidst

the serene meadows,

It emanated the ray of

soothing fragrance.

He was captivated by her charm,

Treasuring all her catchy disposition,

All day he stood in the courtyard,

Flipping past memoirs, unmisted with love,

Hence, Jeopardizing his fragile shrieking mind.

Humble he stood, mumbling in grief,

Sobbing his eyes, but

Glittering smile dazed his conscience,

Leaving no nostalgia to mourn.

He gazed the beauty with his heart,

Anticipating her sympathizing glance,

But tragic sadness pinched him to yearn,

Her enchanting yet, down-to- earth demeanor.

Tick-tock the time faded unnoticed,

In her gravitating paradise of love,

Fantasizing, fantasy of romanticism,

And embracing every moment, cherishing

every dream.

Depression geared up, brooding intimacy so

rigid,

Engraving star-crossed lovelorn,

Sandwiched in his dilemma, trauma

concealing him,

to mummify alive for her precious sake.

Oh! God was blind to

judge,

Deaf to pour in his plea for

her,

Solemnly he begged for

his undefined love,

Damn, he sacrificed his

love to tragic hell.

He blames not god, but his

own karma,

Who unlocked his own

graveyard,

To rest in peace, propitiating lords,

to carry his message beyond her horizon.

Now, he sighed! In relief to remorse,

For the things he haven't said,

He whispered, 'I LOVE YOU'

In her dream, so mellow, but painful to her

heart.


20


Moitreyee Raju

Calcutta

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Impoverished

Poverty is a highly cherished entity.

No don't be surprised...cherished it is!

'Cause it satiates the urge for charity;

For many it's even a road to sanctity.

Here famine of thoughts and feelings

very gleefully display their ugly peelings!

Poverty's barren valley

is unscrupulously left to

rally,

all those deep seated

woes buried in its alley;

Woes mired in both kind

and creed

and are powerful enough

to make you weep!

But do you weep...?

At the perpetual

indifference,

showered with such deep

reverence?

Writ large in the eyes of your brethren?

Their pangs of hunger

have often made me wonder,

how do they muster such candor?

I can sense a seething volcano within;

A revolt, is what they're asking?

But being quiet amidst the disquiet

has been the gigantic bane

of this very vast human lane.

But poverty can even create trysts

wherever it comes to exist;

Yes, trysts with the mind

where poverty really thrives!

And my thoughts often glide,

on the wavy tides

of a poverty stricken mind....!

Like the deep dark cloak of night

when poverty enters the domain of mind,

leaving it impoverished,

making it appear malnourished,

evergreen thoughts then sound gibberish;

As if there never is a day after the night,

resemblant of a dark tunnel devoid of light.

It's a happening that happens in you

when poverty outgrows you!

India

Poverty creates a

dreamer,

the dreamer salvages the

achiever.

But an impoverished

mind

has an opium like bind,

that can only trample and

curtail your rise!!

Sujata Paul Megha

In Your Messy Hair

In Your Messy Hair

The poetries were composed

By you sitting under the mango tree,

I just stared at your messy hair

Which looked silky and carefree.

You tried to knot them with the clip

As they interrupted your writing

But in yonder I never wanted the same

For I could take myself far away seeing the

hair through my fancy weaving.


21


Wished let them fly in the open air

A thirsty mind is there to get bathed in the

silky, weavy hair,

In this transitory life perhaps not possible

To witness the same again

Hence let's make the moment remarkable

being jolly and fair.

Tanu Vermani Kapoor

India

Clustered breath

swaddled in green

Amidst blossoms and

aura serene

Stealthily suspiring

phases to survive

Tweaking alterations,

they aren’t too naive

A Butterfly In Me

Cocooned in myriads of

embellished dreams

Silky threads of

anticipation amidst glossy streams

Creeping through days preparing for strife

Then swathed in silk to witness all hues of life

Incessantly altering, remolding steadily

Incarnating anew all fragments but only bodily

Soul unvaried…though semblance is new

Guised in beauty with wings long due

Cleaving, exfoliating, shedding all old

Leaving the past, it wasn’t like gold

Unfurling kaleidoscopic wings, fluttering to try

A want in my heart and hope that I could fly

Sajid Hussain

Pakistan

Niceties of Difference

lapse of time tries to link with sequence,

Scenes interchange with the vision,

Once proceeds to forget, other to remember,

Interesting are to watch or to develop,

Colours of rainbow get changes for attraction,

A point of thinking makes opportunity,

For a bright disposition into alien channels,

Lonely daring soul in the

dim rest,

Ponders to unmeasure

prospect of leisure,

Steep onrush of life

tortures to the current

plays,

Only emerging stars set

distinction in the sky,

Patience is for wait in

monotony ,on,

All the uplands of

thoughts and curious flavour,

On the screen of surprise yet to appear ,

Cold glare beneath edge of night,

In affectionate to tender impulses,

That hang in my heart and soul,

What I think in the waves of gossip,

Disguised in chill in rank of social position,

A few solitary moments under the shades of,

Twilight of realities with bare footsteps.

Put me on the schedule of niceties of

difference.


22


Lakshman Kisku

India

Living love

That love was more than I was, the most

In the sky of Subalpur, in the air, in the middle

of the heart.

Didn't find anything

Durbisaha grief took back!

The thorny path, life goes beyond the

boundaries of endurance

Living love, I will one day be lost in the void!

The flowers bloomed in

the middle of the young

leaves,

Spring has come to my

mind, what I did wrong in

my youth!

Fluffy soft petals;

Bumblebees sitting

Young stalks; The word

murmur.

Loving mind, Manena

Kangal, Manena Dhan

Travel has forgotten the caste and caste

differences.

Dreams are colorful, the intoxication of having

a good time!

Dreams are my dream, unconscious mind has

no direction.

The goldenness that is torn from the young

I am such a hetha today!

In the middle of the crowd, my love was

spoken

Samaj raft will rise today at any wharf!

The next person to feel pain is Sudheejan.

Love just repeats itself

Beat your head!

Loveless love is torn in the dry tarucha of seta.

Living love, I will one day be lost in the void.

Loreta Toader

Germany

footprint

Dawn was waltzing

The leaves brought me the murmur of your

whispers

Under the bare feet I felt

the dew of translucent

kisses

I've never been happier

I felt so close to you

I breathed your green

breath into the night

And exhausted longing

I've been looking for you

for centuries

I had given you thousands

of dreams to gather, to

understand

I had stars hanging in garlands

But a star, the most beautiful

I kept it for your heart

It was so bright and so vivid that

I hugged you in my arms giving you the most

beautiful smile

I warmed your soul with your heart and stole

a kiss from you - the morning kiss star.

Slowly, slowly, I woke up

Looks like it was just a dream

A dream lost in the words of a poem

The imprint of a fantasy remained in my soul!

I never got one like mind

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23


Suchismita Ghoshal

India

◾Memories◾

Suddenly she clutched my wrist,

just like before,

my bracelated wrist with her grips;

She grinned like blossomed flowers

& dragged me to catch a walk with her,

to have the same two scoops of strawberry.

I sniffed the aroma of her hair,

taking her head to my

laps,

& just when i tried to land

a forehead kiss,

dreams ended, &

shattered; memories

cried.

◾Fascination◾

Perhaps your mind

clicked on love,

The passionate one, You

thought it right.

But my intentions are to target my words,

to blend into them like dark chocolates,

to embrace them with the purest desires.

My verses ignite the fire on my heart

& my scribblings embellish my diaries.

My gypsy thoughts are free from any prisons,

They shape my fascinations into a cloud,

Showering the rains of my poetic dreams.

◾Abode Of My Dreams◾

Germination of my dreams,

are seeded deep into the soils of my school.

Never to be vaccinated, & splintered;

from the lanes of my heart at any cost.

The house where possibilities reside,

where tender minds dream of

being a doctor serving poors,

being a pilot touching the limits of skies,

being a writing engraving the tales of solace,

& everything together with hands on hands

with the bliss of the Gods disguised as

teachers.

Bio

Author Suchismita Ghoshal hails from West

Bengal, India. At the very early age of 23, she has

shaped her life in a way

where she cuddles with

literature and devotes herself

into finding peace through

love, compassion, learning &

community service.

With an academic

career in science till

graduation, she is currently

pursuing her masters in

business administration (

MBA) from the renowned GD

Goenka University in

Gurgaon, Haryana. Besides

that, she is a professional

writer, published author, internationally acclaimed

poet, literary critic, literary influencer, content

writing member for WEST BENGAL UNITED

NATIONS YOUTH ASSOCIATION, INTERNATIONAL

ORGANISATION OF UNITED NATIONS VOLUNTEERS

& HELPING HAND INTERNATIONAL

ORGANISATION, change-activist & a nature lover.

With more than 520 coveted co-authorship in

various renowned national & international

anthologies, prestigious literary magazines,

websites, webzines and eminent literary journals,

she fosters to carry forward her literary career in a

more prominent way. She has also authored 3 poetry

books by the name of "Fields of Sonnet", “Poetries in

Quarantine" & "Emotions & Tantrums".

Her poems have been translated into Arabic,

Italian & Spanish till now.


24


Santosh Kumar Biswa

Bhutan

My Injured Pen in Hand

I wreak my pen for a ride lang syne,

Across the desolate land of emptiness

With my verses for greenery to bring forth.

Eagles assailed me with its cruel mind

To snap off my pen and to booze, its ink

Never to accord my verse to hang

Like the moon through the milky ways

And to get snapped into pieces.

Me alone, with my injured

pen in hand

Picking it from East, West,

North and South

To mend to let the ink

respite in peace

And to let it repand with

verses so eternal

More intense for the

barren land to shine.

My verses, through the

rough wind flowed

Like Ulysses's ship over the dim sea in Troy

Through the hardship, so determined to ply

And to defend the Greecian covetous in mind.

The storm it produced subdued cruel eyes,

Now the verses piled in volumes on shelves

To rid those dusty eyes and to denote, I'm a

winner.

God enumerates heads

that hold the social mind

that furnishes;

To the piteous poor ones

with devout contributions

Social Service

that burnishes;

Away from narcissistic,

to foster the godly welfare

that replenishes;

For safe heaven,

by assisting any societal problems

that garnishes.

Divine Choir

Not through the red rug, but the sky beam

I struck the smooth flight thru' the galaxy high

And my chassis near my tomb lie inculpable.

The way, so pleasing, the

blinking stars to see

And their beamish grins

to cherish my advent

With divine guard of

honor by angel's twins

And their whispers on my

ears, so dégagé.

In gentleness all comets

glared us in delight

And the heaven's gates

with their broad arms

Like to a monarch to greet upon the arrival.

Bracing my mother wit and the path so bright

The gayety in me augmented like a semitone

And the whispers satiated with discernment

Of my deeds that pleased for my unveiling.

The second, on my left 'bout my pristine mind

Social in itself - the mitt granted for the

indigent

Then the choir from the heaven's gate to bid

Until the common hall for the grand success

And to join the choir for those left on the dirt

For divinity to betide for ataraxic to override.

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25


With Poetry to point the Actus

Reus

The Antarctic: I stand here to

Heal you

The weapon of my gramps in the combat,

A piercing knife that penetrated wakeless,

Shaded blood as brutal as its abrupt edge.

The blasé gun of my father's hand in war

Impinged the guiltless bullets in the breast,

Stamped out human as lethal as its veracity

For the oppressed power to conquer and rule,

Although treacherous, but not to get depressed.

Since my nativity, many

hatreds to see about

And no dearie to germinate

among all youths

For the Satan is so

intelligent to subjugate all,

The man's pallid mind for

their inglorious act

And to translate the value

that lies within love;

Of human minds that

cries and the life itself

For the selfish war that gratify the chosen one,

But innocents to remain roofless and squint.

Behold! The glacier that dwell in the Antarctic,

Weary not since I shored to afford my hand

Among many; me alone to rid your sorrow

And give you the strength never I did before.

You go slender, meager in quality than ere,

The bleeding, wrenchingly you flow to show

Of your gloominess that exceed the bound.

The sense deep inside you seems bellicose,

And you robust yourself for war before time

Between you and those

unwise one to strike.

Hear you, I stand here to

heal you before long,

Look, the saplings in my

right to medicate you

And wastes of unwise in

my left to recycle.

The banner on my bag is

to aware all deaf

And letters inscribed in it,

your painful songs.

I got a vacuum to clear the ozone for fair rays

And the strapped one in action for your guard.

Oh mighty pen, let us work in concert to kill,

But not like weapon and gun my fathers used,

Best, let's kill those conceited minds of pride.

I shall sharpen you like a sword, so acute,

And shall drill to be precise in our survey

With poetry to point the actus reus of the past

And then fight to redress the mind of humans

For poetry to prosper as the warrior of peace.

After, I'll get hold of rich ones who are deaf

With this banner to let them sing desperately

Close to the aggravate age to deflect soon

And get to your fail-safe and their generations.

I weary, they are mislaid in a materialist

world,

But I shall strive to barter minds and change

For a brighter day to arrive and make you firm

For safe Antarctic, forever as before to stand.

The last chance I beg you, to seek and strive

Of your goodness and for the profit of all.


26


Sahadev Behera

India

A Promise to Humanity

Service to mankind is service to God,

We the people live with a family world .

Without discrimination of sex, caste, creed and

colour,

Respect to everyone and love to each other .

Don't be confused ,be sure, take a promise to

ensure,

The world is lovely, sweet

and soft like dove's

feather.

All brothers and sisters,

we are very dearer and

nearer

We are the sons and

daughters as a family

member.

Change your attitude, be

positive towards others feeling and emotion,

Share your happiness and joy with friends in

World's perception.

Eradicate illiteracy, terrorism , blind believes,

social taboos, war and curruption,

Brotherhoodness and humanity formulate

peace, tranquility as a social integration.

Every corner of the world blows the breezing

wind,

Unites us and germinates in the whole world,

love, happiness, peace and kind.

Showers the love and emotions to sprout

peace and humanity.

Hesitate narrowness mind and conflicts, spark

the light of joy not cruelty.

Live and let live, respect elders and love each

other,

Being we are the children of a lovely

magnanimous mother.

Biography

Dr. Sahadev Behera is a Govt. Elementary

teacher. He has published more than 7 nos of

educational books. He has

written story, prose and more

than 500 poems in Odia,

English abd Bengali language.

He has Received so many

awards from different

literary forum throughout

nation and abroad.

Name - Sahadev

Behera, Date of birth- 15/03-

1973 At -Mangarajpur, po -

Sadang, via - Manjuriroad.

Qualification.- M.A,

B.Ed, DSEVH, Profession-

Govt. Teacher; Hobby -

Reading, writing, listening music,

Experience - Poet, social activist, international

ambassador of peace. Member of United Nations

Organisation and many more international

organisations. Received Honorary Doctorate. And

many more international certificates, awards.

Published -More than 7books in regional

language.

More than 500 articles have published in

different international anthology .

Language Known-Odia ,English, Bengali, Hindi.

Responsibility -Moderator and Administrator

of different international forum of literature.

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27


prose 27-30

Ali Jafaroglu

Azerbaijan

(Story)

Captive eyes

From the doors from the eyes, full of

melancholy, looking at their home, large tears

poured onto the roses, red as blood, peeking

out near their feet. The beautiful flowers were

saddened by the influence of falling tears, they

were restlessly examining

everything around them,

as if anticipating some

amazing and terrible

event. With very early

gray hair, with large and

exhausted eyes falling

into a hole, with a faded

face, a tall and slightly

thin man was suffocating

from the sad thoughts he

had endured. These

disturbing thoughts

peeped openly from the face. From the news

he had just heard, he was so affected that the

brains were deprived of the ability to

understand and condemn what was

happening.

Saying goodbye to years of longing, only

now I found the opportunity to get to my

native land. During the Great Patriotic War,

after being wounded, he was captured, since

then his love for the Motherland has never left

him. Even in the most difficult moments, being

face to face with death, faith and love for life

did not lose human will. However, it is a pity

that this separation lasted neither less nor

more, exactly sixteen years.

The bus, which left Baku at midnight,

arrived in time in the center of the district in

the morning. He got off the bus. To find a car in

his native village, he walked with wide steps to

the minibus. Finally, seeing the bus, he

entered, sat down in one of the seats in the last

row and looked out the window, observing the

surrounding home world. The bus station was

moved to the southern part of the city and

improved. Here, trees planted in one row and

significantly grown, in this summer heat, with

their wide leaves, protected a person from the

burning sun's rays. Sometimes a weak breeze

made the leaves move, with joy and delight, as

if he had opened his wings

and wanted to fly.

Conversations with a loud

voice, the voices of

passers-by, the sounds of

cars created a landscape

with mixed noise.

Finally, a few

minutes later the bus left

the territory of the bus

station.

Driving past the

new park, for a moment I

saw the erected monument. No matter how

hard I tried, I could not remember this

monument. Probably built later, he thought.

The sight of this knight, with the pick raised

up, resembled the image in the work of the

great Azerbaijani writer Nizami Ganjavi

"Khosrov and Shirin", where Farkhad, in love

with Shirin, breaks through the rocks of Mount

Bisutun. But I considered it unnecessary to ask

others about it. Because, it was planned in

advance not to reveal his identity to anyone.

Only after he learns detailed information

about family and friends, he can reveal his

identity.

The bus turned left in front of the railway


28


station, slowly drove towards the village,

which for many years has been eager to see.

Meeting with family and friends caused a

heartbeat. Inwardly, I endured a feeling of

anxiety. Turning his heart into a granite

monument and worn out for years, like a

withering flower with a dream not to dry out,

he dreamed of getting to the other side of the

Agstafa River.

Breathing deeply, drawing a pleasant

scent into the mud, he looked out the window,

trying to brand all the changes in his memory.

Suddenly I remembered the wonderful

moments left in childhood. He felt like a child.

One autumn day, being

taller than relatives, thin,

happily walked along a

muddy road towards the

center of the district.

Although his feet

were muddy, his clothes

were soiled, he laughed

happy, doubly glad that

his mother would buy a

new suit for him at the

collective farm market.

He thought, “I'll show my

classmates to see my new clothes. Although

my brother's white shirt had a worn collar on

me, my mother wrapped it in the opposite

direction and sewed it up, a little larger, with

new trousers. Bast shoes are still normal,

while you can get by. "

That same evening, putting on new

clothes, he showed everything to his father:

– Look, dad, how beautiful, - having said

with joy, he added. I love the color blue. "

Father, Amiraslan, examining his son

from top to bottom:

– Yes, sonny, fits well, only a little of the

trousers fall off at the back. You need a belt,

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”said the father, instructed his wife, Amina, to

bring his old belt.

Amina looked and found a belt in the

closet and gave it to her son. The belt fell long,

and my father cut off a part with a knife,

opened new holes in the belt with a small awl.

Brother Rahman stood aside and also

examined him. After that, the pants fit him. A

starched white shirt, as if it had just been

bought.

– Ahmed, son, how they suit you, - said

the mother, leaning her son to her chest and

kissed him.

These pleasant

feelings filled his soul

with delight. It was such a

feeling that no other force

could buy at any other

time.

The fact that he

would soon meet his

father, mother, brother,

life partner Gatiba and his

only son Huseyn seemed

to inspire him, and he

tried to fly. At first he

promised himself that he would not ask

anyone for anything. But he could not stand it

when the bus drove up to a strip of forest,

asked a person who was sitting and at one

time deserving respect, named David, who had

grown much older.

– Excuse me, uncle, where is Amiraslan's

house in this village?

The man looked with surprise at the

unfamiliar face:

– Son, you are probably not from here?

After these words, Ahmed did not know

what to answer. After a little thought, he said:

– I came to visit; - stepped aside his face

so that they would not suspect anything.


29


Uncle David examined him from top to

bottom and carefully said:

– Son, and you do not know that this man

died long ago.

After these words, he expressed regret

and sympathy to the interlocutor, saying that

he was a good person.

Ahmed thought deeply. I didn’t believe

that I would face such terrible news yet. The

death of his father stunned him. But, having

endured, he hid his feelings.

– And his life partner, aunt Amina, is still

alive? he asked in concern. Uncle David knew

from experience that he

had greatly disturbed the

guest. I decided not to say

a word. I was surprised at

one why the guest was

not aware of the lifestyle

of these people.

– Amina was one of

the honest women. But it

has been three years since

I gave my soul to God. I

could not stand it after the

death of her man. They

yearned for their son Ahmed, grieved.

Although black news came, they did not

believe it, they continued to wait for him. How

many did not calm them down, it was all in

vain. The poor fellows, from the painful

longing for their son, gave their souls. May the

earth rest in peace to them; he said with

patience.

Ahmed could no longer endure listening

to David. Sick in the brain. Sacred dreams,

breaking, were shattered to smithereens.

Somehow he came to his senses and hurried to

learn about the fate of his wife and son.

– Son, how do you not know this? - finally

asked the old man.

“Ahsakkal, my father was friends with

Amiraslan, “Ahmed was forced to lie. I knew

that my father sometimes took them to Ganja

to sell fruits. As if he was also from Ganja, and

on behalf of his father came to these places.

– Yes ..., - David said, took a deep breath.

May God punish those who started the war.

The cause of all troubles, difficulties, death of

people is the war. How many courageous

people have not returned from the front.

Families were left with the tears of a widow -

without a husband, children - without a father.

The Amiraslan family was also destroyed by

the war, son. The eldest son Rahman became a

cripple, turned into a bed

patient. It's good that

there is a wonderful life

companion, a real person,

she takes good care of

him. For themselves, next

to their father's house,

they built a new house for

themselves. They have

two children and go to

school. And the son of

Amiraslan, Ahmed, did

not return from the war.

His wife, Gatiba, had been waiting for him for

many years. Blameless and decent, this

woman has gone through hardships and

hardships. All the time she said that Ahmed

would return, even though it was late, but he

would still return. You yourself know, son, it is

difficult for one woman to remain. There can

be rumors in her name, loneliness breaks the

heart, she has to go for any business herself,

sells crops at the bazaar, buys something for

the house. After the death of her father-in-law

and mother-in-law, she was forced to raise her

only son, Huseyn. Since Amiraslan and Amina

wanted Gatiba to rebuild a family for herself,

Amina could not resist this and, finally,

arranged a family life with Bakir, an


30


agronomist of the collective farm. Now they

live together in Amiraslan's house. Bakir looks

after the son of Gatiba as if he were his own.

They live very amicably. Huseyn will soon

graduate from school.

The weather was too hot. There were a

lot of people on the bus, so it was impossible

to breathe. At the same time, the bus was filled

with dust. On the other hand, even in a dream,

the impossible, terrible news enveloped his

heart. As if something inside was broken. All

thoughts were confused in his head, as if sweat

of regret swept over him. Death, loved ones,

life partner married another, all this changed

his mood. What his only

son calls another man's

father makes him sad and

suffocates him.

He recalled a letter

to Gatiba written from the

Baltic region. In 1943. In

the same year, when

there was a bloody battle

there, he was mortally

wounded. For two

months he was treated in

a hospital and almost

died. During that terrible period, when the

battle was not for life, but for death, he asked

a man from the Tauz district, named Asker, to

write a letter to the family with the following

content:

"If I cannot return to my homeland safe

and sound, marry a man worthier than me,

more honest than me, and was taller than me

in everything."

Now, when he thought about it, sadness

overcame him, burned out from internal

torment, endured anxiety.

Eh! Why did my destiny turn out this

way? How many suffered torments and

sufferings, bloody days of war, hunger and

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thirst, capture and prison life, endured so

many terrible and unbearable trials, but was

never unshakable. Oh my God! What a day ?!

My grief is higher than mountains, deeper than

rivers, - he fell into thoughtfulness, leafing

through the pages of a book of a painful life he

lived.

Like many others, I volunteered for the

war against the German fascists. In one of the

heavy battles, an enemy shell exploded,

wounded me in the head, and many parts of

my body were damaged by shrapnel. In that

1943 year, in the fall, after being wounded, the

Nazis took me prisoner. This was the

beginning of a martyr's

captive life. I do not wish

this to anyone. First in

Büchenwald, then in the

prison camp of Osvensija

until the end of the war he

lived a life of torment. If

you can say that this is

life. Before losing their

strength, they forced the

prisoners to work, shot

those who could not

work, burned them alive

in blast furnaces, put them on a chair, tied

them up, gave electricity to the body, gave us

terrible inhuman torment. Defeated in World

War II, the Nazis exterminated millions of

people of different nationalities. I turned my

will into steel, iron, withstood. I prayed to God

to stay alive.

After the defeat of Japan, when the

deadly terrible war ended, which brought

death to millions, I was forced to live with the

same German family. This family did not

torment me so much, sometimes they showed

concern, they respected my feelings. I also

knew that upon returning home from

captivity, they would arrest me and treat my

family badly. So, despite the fact that at first I


31


did not want to return home, but longing for

the Motherland, to see my relatives and family,

my village, this dream took up. Believing in

Stalin's call for amnesty, he decided to leave

Germany. I lived in a remote village in the city

of Dresden, the owner of the mansion insisted

that I not leave, found myself a family, and for

this they would provide me with the necessary

help, then you will repent. But I am not

believed him, disobeyed his advice, and

returned to the USSR in 1946. I was arrested

at the border. Over the years, I had to endure

when I saw my family and friends. At home

they knew nothing about me. He covered a

long way to Baku. Once

again he was

overwhelmed by the joy

that he would see his

relatives. I thought that he

would forget all the

torments and, like others,

live a calm life.

– Well, son, we got

there! - said Uncle David.

Ahmed was

suddenly startled. He

raised his head and

looked at the old man. The old man was

waiting for him to get off the bus.

– Look, here is Amiraslan's house, the old

man pointed out.

– Thanks! - Ahmed said somehow.

Leaving the bus, I waited for it to start. I

didn't want to go home any more. I thought

that all ties with his home were cut off. He did

not want to destroy his wife's new family.

True, he was very nervous, endured anxious

moments. In the depths of his heart, he also

thought that everything that happened to him

was fate.

Suddenly, independently of himself, he

cried violently. Tears flowed like a mudflow,

remembering childhood, youth, a brief family

life, he stood in front of his home. Covering his

face with both hands, he sobbed all the way

until his heart was relieved. Then I came to my

senses a little. So that passers-by would not

suspect anything, he took out a handkerchief,

wiped away his tears and looked attentively at

the house. The house was the same, except

that the walls were whitewashed, the

windows were painted, and the house was

covered with ceramite. The stall for livestock

has not changed, the chicken coop for poultry

has been slightly enlarged. The canopy boards

were finished by him, the vineyard was

planted by himself. A

wide-leafed vineyard

covered the surface of the

canopy. A counter and a

table were placed below.

The mulberry tree

planted by my father

sheltered from the sun's

rays. He recalled how,

bending a little tree

branch, ate tutu, sang

songs, rejoiced with the

guys.

Tears appeared in his eyes from sadness,

looking at the trees, he did not want to leave.

He saw the roof, which he himself built for

stacking firewood, when he was in school, he

remembered how he wounded his finger then,

hammering in a nail with a hammer. His father

scolded him for working alone, advised him to

ask his brother or friends for help.

Then Amina, calming her husband, said:

– What do you want from the poor child?

The firewood gets wet in the rain and snow, so

the boy tries not to get wet. Father said:

I'm nervous because he works without

help, and this job is not for one person.

Amiraslan raised his hand up, no sound. He


32


also raised the other, hit his hand on the arm,

heard a sound. You see Amin, it's not for

nothing that the fathers said: "Not a sound

from one hand."

Son, to work, when you need help, call

others for help.

These words, as if carved in the memory

of Ahmed.

On the right side of the house there was

a bedroom, where once there were love affairs

with Gatiba. They loved each other very much.

Gatiba's father immediately agreed to marry

his daughter to Ahmed. Ahmed was a

handsome and decent young man. He was

always engaged in useful

work, helped his father

and mother, friends in

everything. His wife gave

birth to a beautiful boy for

him. The birth of a child

brought happiness to the

house.

Ahmed, hearing the

conversation from the

side, quickly looked back.

Three young people,

talking, walked in his

direction. He wanted to show that he had

nothing to do with this house. So he bent down

and wiped the hem of his trousers and

hesitated a little. When he straightened up, he

saw in front of him a tall, full body, with

chestnut eyes, a friendly gaze, a shirt with

short sleeves and a teenager wearing blue

trousers standing over his head.

– Uncle, what happened to you? Who are

you looking for? the teenager asked.

Ahmed heard a pleasant voice and was

very worried. He examined the young man.

Top down. As if the structure of his face was

like that of Ahmed. The son was very similar to

his father. The heartbeat intensified, the

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

pulses increased.

“What kind of meeting is this, God ?!” the

thought passed through my head for a

moment. Arriving in his native village, he

heard about the death of his father and

mother. For many years of childhood and

youth, with an extreme dream of getting home,

he could not get there, like a prisoner, furtively

glanced around, asked in a caring manner:

– Son, do you live in this house?

– Uncle, this is our house, - the young

man answered with restraint, assuming a

caring look:

“You seem to be

feeling bad? - said and

invited the guest into the

house:

– Thank you, son, it

became a little bad, -

Ahmed answered sadly.

– Uncle, go into the

house, - the youth

persisted.

– No, sonny, what is

your name?

– Huseyn.

After these words, a feeling of fear

passed through my heart. He staggered

unconsciously. Barely kept himself from

falling to the ground. As if for a moment this

desired meeting with my son made me forget

all the torments. How much he had expected

these happy minutes, how much he had to

endure for the sake of this day. Although that

happy moment was near to hug her only

beloved son, it was impossible. Only with a sad

look and gaze, accustomed in captivity, did he

examine his son. Raising his right hand and

lightly putting it on his son's shoulder, he said

with speed:

– Oh god, how did you grow up son.


33


When I saw you, you were two years old.

The boy looked at the stranger in

surprise:

– Uncle, I don’t know Ias, you seem to be

the first time in our village? - asked the young

man.

Ahmed followed every word and

movement of his son and tried to remember

forever.

– I used to be often in your house, son.

Damn Hitler and all fascists! How many

innocent people died, how many houses were

destroyed, families were left without a head.

For the first time after the

war, I am in a village.

Unable to withstand

the alarm, he opened the

shirt button and asked. "

Where is your father?

"The young man did not

expect such a question

from him.

He

was

embarrassed and replied:

– Uncle, my father

died in the war. According

to what was said, he fought in the Baltic States,

fought heroically. Even after his death, he was

awarded the medal "For Courage!" Mother

kept the black news to this day. I am the son of

Achmed Aleskerov!

Ahmed, proud of these words, stroked

the young man's head:

– Son, I'm sorry, I didn't know about it. I

know your father well. I loved him very much,

as a brother, this good-natured person, at the

same time our fathers were close friends,

”having said, he had to lie. Otherwise, the

secret would have been revealed, and Gatiba's

further fate would have been annoying.

Therefore, Ahmed did not want to ruin the life

of his son and wife. To the rural people, how

could he explain that he was not guilty ?! The

people will ask: "Could you write a few lines?"

I, branded as an enemy of the people, no one

would have believed that all rights had been

taken away, on the contrary, they would have

accused me.

The son tried to continue the

conversation he had just heard:

– Uncle, I love my mother very much.

Because of me, she threw herself into fire and

flames.

My father's spirit is always with me. We

have been waiting for his return for a long

time. Enlarged a

photograph in military

uniform sent from the

war, hung in the living

room.

Each time I open my

eyes, I look at the

photograph and talk to

him. For several years

now, my mother has

arranged a family with

another person.

She did it out of the stubbornness of her

grandparents. Uncle Bakir, although not my

own father, is a good man. He is always polite

with me, on friendly terms, I always respect

him.

He has no children, so he considers me

family. Grandmother and grandfather died

early, unable to bear the death of their son

Ahmed.

I have always dreamed of being a hero

like my father. Therefore, I gave documents to

the Military Academy, I will try to become a

professional military man in order to protect

the Motherland from inveterate enemies.

Ahmed was a little alarmed by the


34


lordship of his son's words. Ahmed especially

liked his patriotism and deep love for the

Motherland. At the same time, his memory of

his father, calling his name with pride, as if

lifted him into heaven. The step that Gatiboy

took was the dream of Amiraslan and Tarlan,

and even the result of his desire in the last

letter. Parents left this world, if Gatiba would

not arrange a new family, how would a lonely

one live, after all, my brother is also sick and

crippled ?! - passed through my head.

He turned his face to his son and said

goodbye to him:

– Goodbye, son, I expected these words

from you. I believe that all

dreams will come true,

you will vigilantly stand

guard over the

Motherland, - having

uttered these words, he

embraced his only son for

the first and last time for

him, pressed him to his

chest and kissed him. This

kiss, even for a moment,

made it possible to forget

everything that had been

lived through martyrdom. Now he calmly, not

looking back, although he did not know what

awaited him ahead, regardless of this he could

return, where a new fate awaited him. Because

a faithful and decent son of Azerbaijan lived

and grew up in his home.

With a proud glance, Ahmed looked at

his son for the last time, at the house where he

lived before, began to return back, confident in

his dreams.

At this time, a familiar and familiar voice

was heard from the yard:

– Who are you talking to, son?

Did he bring news from his father?

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

Translated by Marjeta Shatro Rrapaj

Noorullah khattak

Pakistan

In love with round figures

Getting tired with straight paths, straight

lines and straightforward behavior, the writer

opted to get complicatedly tactful. In the past,

Simplicity and straightforward ways of life

carried our elders in rural mode of life.

Now in this age of constantly shrinking

space and time , behavioral lines have turned

full circle. To stay relevant in our fast time, one

must be good in double

talk, situation- related

expressions and changing

modes and ideas from

place to place. The word

used for this ability is

"Savoir faire" (literally =

knowing how to do) in

English.

When I turned how

to theorize this

bevaviorial ability, I

stumbled on the phrase:

"well rounded personality".

But this was not something new. It could

be found in the 7 rounds of circumbulation (=

tawaf). Pilgrims dressed in patch of white

cloth nimbly walk around kaba sharif.

Perhaps, this is the lesson for believers to

evolve diplomatic and clever while defending

themselves from scheming jews and

hypocritical non-muslims right from the dawn

of Islam in 7th century.

Mathematicians used roundness for

cross-checking calculations. States Diplomats

used roundness for words that can be

reinterpreted differently later.

Clever people in State and Society turned


35


"roundness" into hypocrisy. The speech and

words of all these people can be summed up in

spotless urdu as " gol mol baat and jawab". The

best and brilliant of people even known how

to link round things into a complex whole to

stay and work formidably.

When all this has become a norm in

human societies, what is option of defensive

and offensive behaviour???

The answer is to stay and behave in

"Concentric way". Be complex as much as you

can to overwhelm the roundness of thugs,

ruffians and tricksters in society.

Let your personality and growth be

"Wheel within wheel" to

fend off the human

enmity and moves of

deception.

The time of simple

walk, talk and solemn

word is over now. It is

"Roundness" that is a

fashion. The growth is

now measured not only in

rounded ability but interlinking

the round things

in right frame of

formation.

Malak Nora Hammadi

Algeria

Colonial thoughts ... when do

we knock on the door of

terrible silence

That you haven't eaten anything for a

certain time, it is not necessary that you are

now hungry...

It is never wrong to say something

unusual

The mistake is that we do not have the

courage to express our opinion frankly

The mistake is to paint a civilized picture

of yourself that has nothing to do with the

features of your real personality.

Challenge yourself a bit and try to sit in

front of a mirror and stare at it for a long time

Even if curiosity kills you and you open

your insight for a while, you will not recognize

the character in it

What we fall into now and what draws us

to the bottom of our thinking is the selfish ego

rooted in our thoughts

How can the world

recognize us as a literary

fact when we do not have

the slightest ability, which

is to express freely ...

expressing an opinion

and discussing the other

opinion

There is only one

truth to be spent

on...which is to run with

ideas backwards...and

they are given the idea

that we do not agree on any opinion.

And they like the idea of divide and

conquer...

We do not suffer from any colonialism ...

nor any external oppression

Only we were the ones who caused the

cultivation of colonialism with our thoughts

We will not find the way to freedom and

psychological comfort... unless we have the

ability to eradicate some convictions that wear

the mantle of tradition.


36


essay 36-35

Jesús Coromoto Olivares

Venezuela/Ecuador

Reflection: No racism

No racism

Tamara Čapelj - Šahdo Bošnjak

Bosna i Hercegovina;

Recenzija za zbirku dečije

poezije Šahde Bošnjaka – kad

bi djeca imala planetu

Sometimes we can have black and white

thoughts, but when we are dealing with

humans, let's change our suffering, let's see

ourselves as brothers, to change this world,

which is spoiled.

We cannot consent

to continue being

mistreated, whoever

wants to live without any

discrimination, which

perhaps as a fortune,

carries; that beautiful

color like a moonless

night, and that gives tone

to his skin.

Let's live very harmoniously with

everyone around us, nature knew does not

look, no distinction, when judging, if the

person is beautiful or that person is ugly.

Hug me, my brother, do it with good will,

so that hatred will go away and evil will not

exist. If we all obey, the Creator will reward

you!

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

KATEGORIJA: recenzija zbirke dječije poezije; ,

pjesnikinja

Sličice iza sklopljenih očiju

Želite li se vratiti za trenutak u

djetinjstvo? Ako želite,

prvo što ćete učiniti je

sklopiti oči i čekati da u

svijesti iskoče sličice, mali

bljeskovi sjećanja iz

vremena upoznavanja

svijeta. Sklopljenih očiju,

listat ćete šarenu

slikovnicu života satkanu

od trenutaka koji su

ostavili najveći pečat na

vas. Upravo je to učinio i

Šahdo Bošnjak u ovoj

zbirci pjesama, nazivajući

svaku pjesmu sličicom koju je naslikao

riječima. I bez obzira na to jesu li ove pjesme

sličice iz vremena njegovog odrastanja ili je u

njima sadržano znanje prosvjetnog radnika i

pedagoga koji je život posvetio radu s djecom,

njihova vrijednost je upravo u tom slikanju

dječije stvarnosti stihovima – ili

književnoteorijski rečeno – u pjesničkim

slikama svijeta viđenih očima djeteta.

U ovim pjesmama otkriva se upravo taj

dječiji svijet, a pjesnik nas stihovima podsjeća

na ono što je djeci važno: roditelje i obitelj,

bližu društvenu okolinu koja utječe na

formiranje stavova, omiljena mjesta za igru i

značaj same igre kao pripreme za život,


37


vršnjake s kojima dijete provodi slobodno

vrijeme, školu kao najveću djetetovu obavezu,

uzore i junake s kojima se dijete poistovjećuje

– a što također bitno utječe na formiranje

njegove ličnosti, samim time i važnost

umjetnosti, posebno književnosti, za širenje

vidika i usvajanje vrijednosnih sudova, prva

iskustva i susrete s nečim novim za dijete kao

što je prvi odlazak u kino, način na koji dijete

uči razlučiti dobro i zlo te upoznaje svijet,

zavičaj i društvene norme koje dijete usvaja,

ali i ljubav i prijateljstvo kao vječne kategorije.

Pritom se izdvajaju dva načina na koji pjesnik

ponire u dubinu djetetova svijeta: prvi je u

pjesmama o svojem

djetinjstvu i iskustvima u

odrastanju, a drugi je

kada iz pjesnika

progovara pedagog te

pjesme postaju male

stihovane priče s

univerzalnom porukom.

Naravno, pjesme o

vlastitom djetinjstvu i

odrastanju izlaze izvan

okvira prvog ciklusa

nazvanog „Sličice iz mog

djetinjstva“, u kojem je pjesnik progovorio o

svemu onome što je ostavilo trajni pečat na

njegovoj duši. Iskustvene pjesme pronaći

ćemo i u ostala četiri ciklusa, koji su motivski

podijeljeni na pjesme o djetinjstvu općenito, o

prirodi, o životinjama te o ljubavi,

prijateljstvu, školskim danima i čistom

okolišu. U prvom ciklusu pjesnik progovara o

odrastanju na selu i omogućava uvid u život

dječaka okruženog prirodom, životinjama i

ljudima koji od jutra do večeri naporno rade u

potpunom skladu s prirodom. Zato pjesnik

kaže da su glavni likovi njegovog dječijeg

svijeta zapravo njegovi otac i majka, te poetski

nastavlja:

Sporednim likovima

ne zna se ni broja.

Tu su: hodža i učitelj,

pa bosanski kralj sevdaha

i pratizanski maršal,

pa brazilski kralj fudbala

i argentinski revolucionar,

pa američki predsjednik

i španski general,

pa krava Dikulja i kobila Zeka

i na kraju djed i baka moja.

Na taj način on širi spoznajnu razinu iz

bliskog okruženja na cijeli svijet, potičući

djecu da crpe duhovnost

iz svih izvora koji je nude,

a time ih ujedno uči

toleranciji.

U „Sličicama o

djetinjstvu“, koje su

ujedno i drugi ciklus

pjesama u ovoj

stihozbirci, autor

progovara o onome što je

važno djeci, te imamo i

humoristične pjesme o

dječijim vragolijama, ali i

vrlo nadahnute pjesme s univerzalnom

porukom i razigranom maštom. Tako će se svi

slatko nasmijati uspavanoj Selmi koja se nije

pripremila za odgovaranje u školi ili o tome

gdje djeca vole ostaviti svoj pečat – prvi crtež

na koricama knjiga. Ali i kako ti poduhvati

završe. Ili koliko djeci znače igra i rođendanski

poklon. Čitajući ih, i odrasli se mogu zapitati

jesu li izgubili iz vida ono što je važno djeci i

živi li u njima još uvijek dijete. Možda je

najbolji odgovor na ova pitanja jedna strofa iz

pjesme “Djeca mira”:

Kad bi djeca na brodovima

bila zapovjednici prvog reda,

umjesto mina i torpeda

prevozila bi tegle meda.


38


Pjesme posvećene prirodi su poetski

udžbenici iz poznavanja prirode, u kojima

pjesnik nastoji na umjetnički način približiti

djeci prirodu i pojave u njoj. Zato on duhovito

pjeva o godišnjim dobima, nebeskim tijelima,

biljkama iz našeg okruženja, prirodnim

pojavama i povezanosti svih živih bića u njoj,

pri čemu svatko ima svoju ulogu. Jer, kako

pjesnik kaže, da nema trave, Zemlja bi bila

ogromna, ružna, ćelava glava, a da nema

cvijeća, svijet ne bi bio tako šareno i lijepo

mjesto, ujedno poručujući da je i vjetar itekako

važan u prirodi i ima svoja „zaduženja“.

Posebno su djeci bliske pjesme o

životinjama, u kojima im autor približava

životinje, njihov način

života i važnost za

čovjeka. Ove pjesme

obiluju onomatopejama i

alegorijama, te su

posebno važne na

obraznovnoj razini.

Pjesnik je na djeci

prijemčiv način približio

mačka, šišmiše, leptire,

vjevericu, fazana, cvrčka,

zeca, lastavicu, glistu,

stonogu, pače, ali i

poskoka. Pišući o životinjama, pjesnik poučava

djecu o tome kako da postupaju prema njima i

da ih se bezrazložno ne boje, ali i da male

životinje imaju veoma važnu ulogu u prirodi,

pa i za čovjeka. Također, piše o životinjama

koje djeca mogu vidjeti u svojem zavičaju, te

tako širi njihova znanja o prirodnim

bogatstvima naše zemlje. Pojedine pjesme,

poput one o neposlušnom pačetu, zapravo su

male alegorije koje govore djeci o životu.

Posebno su zanimljive pjesme

posvećene đačkim ljubavima, prijateljstvima i

čistom okolišu. Njima pjesnik poručuje da

svaki čovjek, bio on mali ili odrastao, ima

dovoljno mjesta za ljubav u srcu i da ga to čini

uzvišenim, ali i da je ljubav sastavni dio života:

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Ljubav ima nevjerovatno čudesnu moć:

da miri najljuće neprijatelje,

da ispunjava najskrivenije želje,

da velikodušno prašta učinjeno zlo.

Recite mi: ko još na svijetu može to?

Naročito snažnu odgojnu poruku imaju

pjesme o čistom okolišu. Pjesnik svojim

stihovima kazuje djeci da je priroda zapravo

čovjekov prostor za život u kojem se osjeća

najslobodnije. Stoga je očuvanje okoliša

presudno za život ljudi. Čovjek koji osjeća

prirodu i živi u potpunoj harmoniji s njom

može očuvati zrdravim

svoje tijelo i duh.

Recimo i nekoliko

riječi o jeziku kojim je

napisana ova zbirka

pjesama. On je živ,

razumljiv i prilagođen

djeci, s elementima

lokalnog govora koji

obogaćuju književni

bosanski jezik. Poezija

Šahde Bošnjaka obiluje

stilskim figurama

(alegorije, metafore,

usporedbe, asonance, aliteracije, onomatopeje

itd.), rimom, jasnim pjesničkim slikama koje

počivaju na pojmovima bliskim djeci i

maštovitim konotacijama pa djeca mogu crpiti

iz njih poruke o ljubavi, razumijevanju,

marljivosti, dobroti, poštovanju, ljepoti i

važnosti zavičaja i prirode koja nas okružuje.

Zanimljive su i kratke priče ili bolje reći –

pjesme u prozi, koje pronalazimo unutar

prvog ciklusa. U njima pjesnik živopisno

opisuje kako dijete stječe nova iskustva koja

ostaju u njemu urezana za čitav život.

S obzirom na biranu motivsku potku i

maštovitu osnovu ovih pjesama, ali i njihovu

lirsku univerzalnost, smatram da će ova knjiga

naći posebno mjesto u srcima malih čitatelja.


39


confabulation 39-46

Lenuş Lungu

Biography Maruf Sheikh

Maruf Sheikh, a "dark-minded thinker",

was born on Tuesday, October 8, 1991, to a

middle-class family. He is the youngest son of

parents. Baba was a freedom fighter and an

officer as chief superintendent / chief chemist.

Under the Bangladesh Chemical

Industries, in the residential area of Maruf

Sheikh's birthplace, in the officers' colony of

the North Bengal Paper Mill, in the D3

building, he was a quiet

writer from an early age.

She was inspired by her

father's writing, and her

older sister sang. Seeing

all this, he started writing

from a young age in class

five.

When he got up in

class six, he lost his father

forever. Since then no

relatives have come to

cooperate in their day of

danger. Maruf Sheikh seemed to realize "What

is pain, what is loneliness? How much does

reality like to peek? Why are people so lonely?

Why this vengeance and neglect and

selfishness? Is this the main pillar?"

He started writing poems in local and

daily newspapers. He was loved by journalists

as a human being. Then in 2016, a lyric poem

written by him was released in the first song

album. The album of songs was the solo album

of Shraddhey Rupel Islam, the singer of

Bangladesh BTV.

The song number 10 was written by

Maruf Sheikh. In 2021, he was honored as the

"Ambassador of World Peace" by the

International Taiphas Literary Department

and the International Writers' Forum.

Among international poets, he was

awarded the "Golden Pledges" by Syrian

international writer Daniel's blogger, and

among Syrian poets. Samar Bhowmik also

honored him according to the certificate.

People seek the habit of living around

their loved ones at the turn of life. But when

their loved ones leave Maruf Sheikh

unattended, he is alone, but he is happy to be

in the crowd of the outside world.

Michelle Araujo de Silva Maria, a

Brazilian citizen who was loved by the author,

was lost by the author due

to his mistake, and the

author continues to

search for Michelle, a

Brazilian citizen, through

his poems. He is honored

by the Albanian Literary

Department.

He is basically a real

speaker, a tragic love

story that makes his

writing startling. He was highly educated,

graduated from Dhaka University with a

bachelor's and master's degree in Bangla, was

a candidate for the 52nd convocation of Dhaka

University.

He studied Commerce all his life. She is a

mother fan. He is a simple man. He has lived in

the city all his life and grew up in a residential

area because of his father's job. His

grandfather's home is in Rajshahi, he is

currently working. Ishwardi, Pabna is his own

home.

(Biography).


40


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The Expectation

One day ,

Come to the threshold of this dark mind;

Your light shadow will reach.

The surroundings are very dark.

I can not get rid of the vacuum -

I live with the body of light.

I can not see the appearance of smoky bags.

Live like this permanently ….

Nevertheless, darkness reaches the threshold

of the mind,

Someone's foot suddenly

stops.

One day ,

Come to the threshold of

this dark mind;

Your light shadow will

reach.

This hope is far from the

mind;

The mind wants to see the

end,

That one day I will see you up close.

…

Professor Abbas Jamal.

Strategic Planning Consultant

Children... a generation

lost...!!

A few years ago, the scenes spread

across international satellite TV screens were

the image of Somali children most commonly

circulated with skeletons and very emaciated

bodies due to poverty and deprivation of the

most basic human needs, which helped to

increase the number of

deaths daily from these

innocent children, despite

the efforts and endeavors

made to improve and

protect this childhood

except The accelerating

events here and there did

not succeed in the official

institutions

and

humanitarian bodies in

achieving their lofty goals

to protect the rights of the

child.. which worsened during the so-called

“Arab Spring” in some countries, due to its

artificial storms that also destroyed the fertile

environment for the sound and normal social

upbringing of children “Generations” due to

instability, waves of political violence and

crises of civil wars on the one hand, and the

weakness of following up on the design and

implementation of comprehensive

development plans to build the person and the

homeland on the other hand...!

All those accumulations have produced

today a "fuel tank of youth"...! And a “energy

tank of children” ..!

The conditions accompanying the


41


Corona virus increased its intensity and the

danger of its explosion, the outcome of the

forced closure procedures and the

deteriorating psychological conditions... at a

stage that translates "the alliance of the deadly

epidemic with the epidemics of the policy of

miserable regimes"...!!

I say to one of the young people of the

new tank... My dear respected one, how

miserable it is for someone who was destined

to be born in a great country... inhabited by

losers and thieves who create misery and

plots...! Perhaps from bad luck.. the young man

says.. after he lived and grew up between

endless conspiracies and

struggles...

and

continuous crises...

children were always the

victims in them.. because

of many tragedies, the

first of which is

malnutrition.. the absence

of health care..

oppression Poverty..

Hunger.. Disease..

Ignorance.. Begging..

Underdevelopment..

Forced work.. It is slow death.. After they are

recruited to be a fuel tank of war between

violent gangs, criminality and terrorism.. Or

time bombs ready to explode among the

people. Or between segments of society...!!

According to what was stated in a recent

UNICEF report, it confirms the very shocking

and terrifying situation of childhood in some

Arab countries, such as the children of

Lebanon, Iraq, Libya, Yemen and other North

Africans..!

They are statistics of models about the

reality of the reality of the children, "men and

freedom fighters of the future" who are

threatened with annihilation... due to

diseases... loss... school dropouts...

homelessness... and other pests known to

you... all of this will negatively affect the future

of the countries and the nation... ! In light of the

continuation of fragility and superficial

policies in addressing the gaps of families and

schools.. activating the role of national and

local bodies concerned with the promotion

and protection of children.. and supporting

facilities for proper socialization.. in addition

to draining the swamps of exploitation of

children of both sexes.. and ensuring the

provision of comprehensive care.. through

Official attention is given to this category that

needs to review and

update its legislation

within the package of

texts proposed before the

new parliament..and

activate it like the “Child

Welfare Law” in civilized

countries..provided that

the misery makers give

up their ambitions for the

sake of their children and

countrymen…before they

Successive generations

become lost..and go to the country..(in the

Algerian vernacular)..God forbid..! I thank you

for your supportive development efforts.

Written by Professor Abbas Jamal.

Strategic planning advisor.


42


Ali Jafaroglu

(story)

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The tree of Life

One tree has grown in a hot and dry area.

This tree has climbed much, high. There were

so many leaves that there was a shadow all

around. Every time the sun warmed him, he

was disappointed, because no one caressed

him, did not care for him.

The tree, from loneliness, considered it

useless that it grew here. I

dreamed that it would be

better to be a small shrub,

but to have tall trees

nearby. For birds to sit on

its branches, for people to

rest in its shade.

The tree shed bitter

tears. We cried so much

that a transparent puddle

formed around.

Days and months

pass, the seasons replace

each other. The frost and cold of winter freeze

the puddle, the spring rain fills it, it trembles

from the autumn wind, evaporates from the

hot summer. Everything goes on as usual, no

change has taken place. The tree, bored from

loneliness, was disappointed, heart ached

from sadness.

Hearing some rustle or noise, the tree,

startled, raised its head higher, the heart beats

with excitement, but not seeing anyone, it is

disappointed.

One person was walking through the

arid area. My heart was breaking from the

suffocating heat. From thirst, as on the ground,

cracks formed in his lips, his legs were

dumbfounded from fatigue.

The man leaned against the ground. With

a heavy gaze, he looked into the distance, into

endless space. Looking at the sky, I saw the

galaxy. As if from the ancient beliefs of the

Egyptians, the remaining, imprinted in the sky,

the heavenly cow was reflected high.

How much I slept, I did not remember.

The sun has risen. He saw a dark spot in the

distance. He, gathering all his strength,

crawled in that direction.

After hard torment, he reached the

circumference of the tree. The shade of the

tree brought coolness to him. He, lying down,

drank a lot of water from

a puddle and from

powerlessness was for a

long time without

memory.

The tree was a little

overjoyed at the man. It

stretched its branches to

a puddle, watered the face

of a man with its leaves.

Then, trembling like a

light breeze, he gave the

man breath.

The tree, the man's watchman, did not

sleep all night.

With dawn, the darkness went far away.

Everything was covered with a milky color.

The man opened his eyes. Gradually he

got to his feet. He opened his arms and

breathed in fresh air. After yawning a little, he

raised his head up, examined the tree with his

gaze. What I saw was, as in a dream, I

understood everything essential.

The sadness instantly passed, a feeling of

inspiration came.

The tree greeted the man with a loud

voice:


43


tree;

– Welcome, my dear! Good morning!"

The man received the greeting of the

– Good morning, my favorite tree of life!

- he answered with a smile.

From these words, the soul of the tree

was filled with tenderness.

Indeed, how beautiful it is to be called a

tree of life ?!

Translated by Marjeta Shatro Rrapaj

Autobiography

Ali Jafaroglu (Ali

Jafar oglu Aliyev) was

born on July 4, 1968 in the

city of Agstafa of the

Republic of Azerbaijan in

an intellectual family. In

1984 he graduated from

the piano department of

the 7-year children's

music school of Agstafa

named after H. Arif, in

1990 graduated from the

faculty of public correspondents of the

Republican Council of People's University, in

1992 from the history faculty of Baku State

University. In 1987-1989 he served in the

military service in Georgia. He is a candidate

for master of sports in Greco-Roman

wrestling.

In 1992-1993 years he was a teacher in

Hasansu village secondary school of Agstafa

region, in 1993 he was an assistant to the head

of the Executive Power of Agstafa region, in

1993-1995 he was a teacher in Gazakh branch

of Ganja State Pedagogical Institute, in 1995-

1999 he was in the Youth and Sports

Department Chief Inspector, from 1999 to

2011 he worked as a senior consultant in the

Department of Education, Health and Culture

of Agstafa District Executive Power. Since

2011 he has been working as a leading

consultant in the Education Department of

Agstafa region and is a second-class civil

servant. In 2014-2015, he also worked as a

regional correspondent for the magazine

"Cultural Life".

Since 2003 he has been a dissertation

student of the Institute of History named after

A.A Bakıkhanov of the Azerbaijan National

Academy of Sciences. He has published six

scientific articles about historical meetings of

A.A Bakıkhanov, literary relations of

Azerbaijan in the XIX

century, Armenia-

Azerbaijan, Nagorno-

Karabakh conflict, etc.

and made scientific

reports at various

scientific conferences and

international

symposiums in Baku.

His famous poems,

stories, tales, aphorisms

and scientific-publicist

articles published in

“Ulduz”, “Education”, “Cultural life”, “Media

and educational innovations”, “Science and

life”, “Pigeon”, “Füyuzat”, “Culturalenlightenment”

magazines and “Literature”,

“Caspian”, “525th newspaper”, “Savalan”,

“Palitra”, “Culture”, “Azerbaijani youth”,

“Azerbaijani teacher”, “Education problems”,

“Baku”, “Agstafa”, “Psychologist”,

“Morning”,“Novruz”, “Faryad”, “Haqiqat”, “Cikcik”,

“Deli Kur”, “Dadem Gorgud”, “Mubarize”,

“Eurasia”, “Time ”and other newspapers. His

twenty pen products were broadcast on

Azerbaijani radio.

His poems and stories were published in

the collections of poems "Wreath of Poetry of


44


Agstafa" in 2001 and 2002.

Ali Jafaroglu 's "My father is my

happiness" in 2002, "Towards the summit" in

2003, "Doctor's dreams" in 2006, "Spring of

eighty-five years" in 2008, "Sailor's journey" in

2013, "Wreath of Aphorisms" book was

published in 2014. His seventh book "Sailor's

Journey" was published in Persian in 2019 in

the city of Zanjan, the Islamic Republic of Iran.

His literary and scientific-publicist

articles were published in 7 magazines, more

than 30 newspapers, more than 100 internet

portals, as well as his stories published in 8

countries - Turkey, Ukraine, Belarus, Iran,

Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan,

Tajikistan and Georgia in

9 languages - in English,

Turkish, Russian,

Ukrainian, Belarusian,

Persian, Uzbek, Tajik and

Georgian.

The author of seven

books, Ali Jafaroglu has

been a member of the

Azerbaijan Writers'

Union since 2006, the

Azerbaijan Journalists'

Union since 2014, the Iraqi Turkmen Writers

and Writers Union since 2018, and the North

American Writers' Union since 2021.

By the relevant order signed by the

President of the Republic of Azerbaijan, Mr.

Ilham Aliyev, Ali Jafaroglu was awarded the

title of Presidential Scholar on 01.05.2014.

In 2014, he was awarded the “Golden

Pen” media award, and on December 10 of the

same year he won the second prize in the

journalistic writing competition on the topic

“Rights for All!” and the first prize in 2017. He

was awarded the 3rd place in the patriotism

story nomination competition which was held

by the State Border Service in 2015, 1st place

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in 2019. In 2016 he was awarded by the 4th

place in the prose nomination in the

“Competition of poems, prose and drama

works for young children” by the Ministry of

Education of the Republic of Azerbaijan, he

took first place in the essay competition

dedicated to the 100th anniversary of the

Azerbaijan Democratic Republic in the

Republic of Uzbekistan in 2018. In 2018 his

poems were published in the anthology of

poems "From Karabakh Kerkuk to Canakkale"

published in Turkey and his article

"Azerbaijani women in the years of

repression" was published in the collection of

research articles

"Cümhuriyyətə işıq saçan

qadınlar".

In 2015, his story

“Plane and a piece of

wood” was included in

the textbook “Azerbaijani

language” (for VIII grades

of Russian sections). The

story "Five Coins" was

published in the

newspaper " Adana haber

postasi " in turkish, his

"Beş tiyin" story was published in The

Uzbekistan Republic’s newspaper "Book

World" in Uzbek , in 2018 his story "Plane and

a piece of wood" in Georgian was published in

the magazine "Modern Children's Literature"

in Tbilisi, on the website of the Republic of

Kazakhstan his story "Beş tiyin" was in

Turkish, but his story "Walter's goodness" was

published in Russian, his story " Five coins "

was published in the magazine

"Metamorphosis" in Gomel, Belarus, in 2019 ,

his 2 stories in russian were published in

magazine "Ekoloq I ya " in Belarus, his story

was published in Uzbek in "Termez

University" newspaper in Termez, 2 stories in

Tajik in "Adabie va comea" newspaper in


45


Tajikistan, his 2 stories in belarus were

published in magazine "Metamorphosis" in

Belarus in 2021, his story “Plane and a piece of

wood” was published in English and Ukrainian

in international magazine "Solnecniy qorod"

in Kiev, Ukraine, his stories in Russian were

published in the North American Writers'

Union's online magazine "Tvorçeskiy zal" and

in literary magazine " Avanqard " in Donetsk.

He is married, he has a son, two

daughters and a grandson.

(story)

A Plane tree and a plank

They cut the wild

nut tree in the forest.

After they cut off the

branches of it, they

shaved its trunk on

planing machine. They

made doors and windows

from the pieces of plank.

The workers loaded

the wooden materials to

the lorry and brought to a nice house. After

some time the doors and windows of the

building were made, and decorated glasses

were cut according to the size of the window

frames. When the frames were painted with

red paint they began to glitter under the

beams of the sun. That house was seen very

nice! The people passing by stopped at the

house and enjoyed from watching at the nice

building.

A plank which had once been a wild nut

tree in the forest and then had turned to pieces

of wood watched the high plane tree the top of

which could reach up sky. The plank looked at

the leaves of the plane tree enviously and was

pleased with its trunk. After a momentary

silence it turned to the plane tree.

“Hey, plane tree, all who see you praise

your beauty, grandiose and your shadow. If

only I were you! ” said the plank.

The plane tree was lost in thoughts, the

words of the wood dispersed its thoughts. It

looked in the direction from where the voice

was heard, looked at the wooden frame and

asked.

“Why do you ask, plank? I wonder why

do you say so, aren’t you pleased with your

case? ”

The plank stared the

plane tree sorrowfully. It

was so sorrowful, that the

plane tree began to calm

it.

“Why don’t you

speak? Tell me please

what has happened to

you?”

“Once I was also a

high tree, my top could

touch the clouds. I was

charm of the forest. The nightingales settled

on my branches, the children played in my

shadow, the people laughed near me. What a

pity, I can’t live those days anymore. Now

there is no sign of my old charm. I have turned

to an ordinary plank.”

When nut tree finished its talk it sighed

deeply.

The plane tree shook its head.

“Hey, plank! Are you grieving for these? I

was surprised what has happened to you Don’t

grieve! Do you think all the trees will remain

where they are? Even the Mother nature also

changes its appearance. The seasons of the

years replace each other, the nature is lost in


46


winter dream, then it awakens in spring, all

around are covered with flowers. All around is

green. But in autumn the cold winds blow and

the yellow leaves fall on the ground. Have you

forgotten all of these?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten, “plank said.

The plane tree continued.

“You know that the human beings don’t

live forever. They also pass away when it is

time. The old people die and the babies come

to life. The people whom I had seen have been

old, and the children have been adults, “plane

tree said and pointed to the young trees and

said.

“These young trees

had been planted

recently. They are fed

with water, air, sun

beams, and grow with the

care of the people. The

day will come and these

young trees also will be

high as me, they will be

the charm of the forest

and will present joy to the

people. Some of them

won’t grow, they will become dry. That is why

I advise you not to feel sorry for your present

case, my dear!”

“Who will need me? Nobody is in need of

me anymore. Nobody will love me, nobody will

sleek my leaves with their looks, “the plank

said hopelessly.

said.

The plane tree watched the plank and

“I think you must be delighted that you

give a charm to the house. Once you were a

charm in the forest but now you are the charm

of the house. Look, the people watch you! They

are admired at you! The people love you. That

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is why they painted you. But still I don’t know

how my end will be. Maybe they will cut me

and use as firewood, maybe I shall become dry

and mix with the soil.”

After hearing the words of the plane tree

the nut tree became calm and began to watch

around with a smile.

Gautam Deb

India

Translator Sevil Gulten

True knowledge

Learning from

books is only knowledge

that will pave the way by

adding resources along

the way.The main lesson

is the lessons learned

from

nature,

environment, daily life

and society. Acquired

education is the main way

to gain real knowledge.

The depth of knowledge is infinite. The

name of remembering something for a long

time is not knowledge.The chemistry of deep

perception is knowledge that shows the world

a new path.

Knowledge is light. It will just scatter the

ray. And will bind one ray after another. The

true knowledge is the feeling that will take you

to the depths of that ray of light and bring you

out of it.


47


Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi

Pakistan

Would That I Were A Cuckoo!

Would that I were a Cuckoo,

And fly in the cool blue sky,

And look down to and fro,

Searching for people who are hard-hearted,

Stubborn, emotional and destroy Peace.

With my soft melodious

song,

I would awaken the music

of peace,

Once more in their hearts.

Debendra Sahu

India

Tattered

Tears seldom evaporate

Or dry in the pool of our eyes,

Rather they secretly traverse to seas

While streaming on swollen cheeks,

Dancing merrily through the waves

Gently invade the oceans,

Hatching storms in the broken hearts

Darkening the sky and inundating tattered

souls.

Selma Kopic

Bosnia-Herzegovina

Swallows, dear birds

Under the roof of this old house,

I was left completely alone.

My children are gone,

my birds have flown away.

Everything is as quiet as a grave.

Come, swallows, dear

birds,

and make a nest under

my eaves.

May your chirping bring

spring

to my cold home.

May your song bring me

happiness.

I’m waiting for you to

sing with you,

to talk to you about distant expanses

that I’ll never see.

I need you because, when you leave,

I know you will come back to me.


48


The magazine appears in Romania

editorial office

Founding President Lenuș Lungu & Santosh Kumar Biswa

Director: Lenuș Lungu, Santosh Kumar Biswa

Deputy Director: Paul Rotaru

Technical Editor Ioan Muntean

Covers Ioan Muntean

Editor-in-Chief: Ion Cuzuioc

Deputy Editor: Stefano Capasso

Editorial Secretary: Anna Maria Sprzęczka

Editors: Vasile Vulpaşu, Anna Maria Sprzęczka, Pietro Napoli,

Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim, Zoran Radosavljevic, Suzana Sojtari

Iwan Dartha, Auwal Ahmed Ibrahim, Destiny M O Chijioke, Nikola

Orbach Özgenç

Responsibility for the content of texts published in the journal

Taifas Literary Magazine belongs directly to the authors who sign

them, in the name of freedom of expression.

Reproduction - in whole or in part - of the journal and its electronic distribution are

authorized for the private use of the reader and for non-commercial purposes.

yaer I, no. 12, June, 2021

ISSN 2458-0198

ISSN-L 2458-0198

Founded in Constanţa,

June 2020

Revista de scrieri şi opinii literare

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Authors in summary:

ALI JAFAROGLU 27, 42, ANA SMILJANIC 3, BIJAYALAXMI RATH 9, DASHARATH NAIK 13,

DEBENDRA SAHU 47, DR. MINTI GOGOI 9, DR. PRASANS KUMAR DALAI 2, DR. SAHADEV BEHERA

10, DR. SURESH CHANDRA SARANGI 9, DUSMANTA CHOUDHURY 11, GAUTAM DEB 46, GORDANA

ANDONOVSKA 2, JESÚS COROMOTO OLIVARES 36, LAKSHMAN KISKU 22, LEENA RAJAN 10, LENUŞ

LUNGU 39, LORETA TOADER 22, LUNGI SHIGO MSUSA 11, MAHANAJ PARVIN 13, MALAK NORA

HAMMADI 18, 35, MIHAI KATIN 14, MILI DAS 15, MOITREYEE RAJU 20, MUHAMMAD ISHAQ

ABBASI 47, NNAMDI PATRICK 17, NOORULLAH KHATTAK 34, PROFESSOR ABBAS JAMAL. 40, PUNYA

DEVI 17, RADHIKA TYTLER 16, RAMINA HERRERA 14, REZAUDDIN STALIN 6, SAHADEV BEHERA 26,

SAJID HUSSAIN 21, SANTOSH KUMAR BISWA 24, SELMA KOPIC 47, SHANTA FARJANA 15, SHERIFE

ALLKO 12, SUCHISMITA GHOSHAL 23, SUDHA DIXIT 16, SUGAR ZEDNA 12, SUJATA PAUL MEGHA

20, TAMARA ČAPELJ - ŠAHDO BOŠNJAK; 36, TANU VERMANI KAPOOR 21, TSHEWANG NORBU 19

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198


Taifas Literary Magazine No. 12, June, 2021

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