RAHIM KARIM

Savan And Coffin

Oh, how many meters of shroud, how many coffins,
for the burial of the dead
on Palestinian land?!

Oh, how the white cloth trade has boomed,
how did the work multiply for the undertakers?

Work is probably in full swing for businessmen,
Who do not have time to deliver the goods?!
What kind of troubles can Humanity come up with?
When will we, people, learn to live like people?!

Temporary Truce

Hamas and Israel signed a temporary truce agreement

Oh, what is this?
“Temporary truce.”
Stopping before new killings begin?

A respite, a halt before new bloodshed.
Can’t this massacre be stopped forever?!
“Temporary Truce”
How scary you sound.

Even the war itself, which went on before this.
Have you really decided to take a little break?
before we continue to destroy each other?!

“Temporary truce”
come to our senses,
coldness and ardor, hatred for each other.

After all, there are people on both sides,
and not some vampires, bloodsuckers.
“Temporary Truce”
have pity on children, women, civilians.
become the beginning of a permanent truce,
Don’t let the sides kill each other.
O. “Temporary truce”,
all hope is in you…

Gaza

Another conflict has arisen on the plane of the Earth,
A country called Gaza became a sacrifice.
Today even space is crying blood,
What pain this is, what punishment this is!

How painful it is to realize this!
The infidel demonstrates his rapacity.
Not a non-human, but a real butcher,
Humanity makes minced meat from human meat!

God is not pleased with this horror.
Not a single organ will remain intact and healthy.
Is the price of a person really so cheap?
Sheep, bulls and pigs are much more expensive than him!

Even the wolf and the lion are terrified of such pain,
Even the Earth is sick of human blood.
This is not Gaza – but mass murder,
The powers that be are behind these murders.

This is nothing less than the end of the world…

Oh, Palestine

In connection with the bombing of Al-Ahli Hospital in the Gaza Strip

Oh Palestine, country,
over whose head the gallows always hang

called “Israel”.
Oh, how the people of the world cried blood when
over the long-suffering Jewish people
Nazi Germany mocked in the Holocaust,
During the Second World War.
Was it really only 80 years?
so that the people of Israel become
from the image of the great martyr,
in the image of a punisher like Hitler?!
Oh, how sorry I am for the tears shed in compassion
this people I respect.
If I knew that this long-suffering people
will someday become a KILLER!!!
Oh, how I’m sorry…

Lion And Buffalo

When a lion attack one of the buffalo from his herd,
Then the rest of the buffalos stand around and silently watch.
None of the buffaloes try to move their sharp horns,
Although I can rip open the belly of a greedy lion.

The current situation in Palestine reminds me
The fate of a buffalo, whose jaw is in the mouth of a predator.
Although Palestine is surrounded by several Arab countries,
For some reason they leave their relatives to be tormented?!

I think sooner or later one of the buffalos will come to the rescue
buffalo prey
And he will free his brother from aggression…

RAHIM KARIM

AYTEN MUTLU

The Needle

the tide of the sky
shivers in the Near East
the pensive time returns to the beginning
the winds change, the needle reels
it draws pictures of chaos on dreams
turning and turning

the needle feels dizzy
back-and-forth
in the tide of the day.
it embroiders chopped off heads
and eyes of a child crying
on cerecloths

behind the seven seas
from the Far West to the Near East
the tailor cuts out
shirts without buttonholes
tarry shirts plucked from magma

in the tailor’s hand
the needle with a long thread
impetuously goes deep into the wound

the needle is hungry
the needle is naked
one day it sees red
and then stitches images of taylor
on the chest of the hell

the embroidery frame becomes broken

Wet Dog
for Gaza

it’s raining blood
shouting and screaming blood
The sky is so wide and the rain is so dark
the soil had collapsed
overturned garbage bins
even in the weeping earth
There is no shelter anymore

What to look for, where to escape
the trees lost their leaves
The leaves are silent on the trees
The smell of burnt meat mixes with the rain
This naked loneliness person’s sobs
hurts my flesh

This hand is that little girl’s
She did caress my head
with her broken blue beaded wrist
Now a hellish bullet in her belly
Her smile had shattered in his mouth

I’m climbing a mountain of fire
unhappy butterflies in my chest
Where are these women’s screams running to?
these torn lullabies

It’s raining red at night
fire flowers hurt the night
Dead birds are flying around my head
and the children are those festive children

I owe it to God now
how if i were human
I don’t know if I would endure it.
both victim and executioner
to the shame of being

Do You Hear?

shopping centers are being closed, breads are tired
foggy shades in child eyes
poppy field remained seedless
mountains are full of holes, plains are dead
leaves are between falling and remaining

bells are ringing

sandmen are telling tales
to the crowd which has forgotten to grow up
underground and overland are both or sale
thornbushes are being scattered in the old wind
roses do not spring up on the concrete fields anymore

bells are ringing

time is whispering we are not listening
the songs of steed days
we exchange infinity to moments
we exchange ourselves to others
our ego is between staying and leaving

bells are ringing

i am quiet you are quiet he is quiet
whereas the crier of hate is not quiet
brothers are thirsty for each other’s blood
bowls are rusting our hearts are icing up
our blood is between stopping and running

bells are ringing

we are at the broken mirror of history
we have forgotten about our old faces
shattered crabbed hopeless
still we are memorizing waiting
we are waiting for the last judgement as if waiting for Godot

bells are ringing!!!!

Stone Also Became Silent

stone also became silent my love
now we are nowhere we went
the leaves of tears crashing the sky in the storm
don’t cover
children’s graves anymore
in this eternal house of winter

stone also became silent my love
the towers of the evening lowered into the grass
the tree trying to remain standing got tired
the pain hurting my insides
can’t tell nothing to nobody

the sky has decayed
the rains don’t make the sea wet anymore
like a flower that fell down in the pavement
we live with semi-dead animals in our blood
the inside of our bones is getting darker

we used to know everything, i remember,
the situation of the world used to come under us
oh, come and see even stone became silent
the time of loneliness of the iron night
is still moaning where words fail

stone also became silent my love
the moonlight the valley of the dead crabs
the mountains were buried in the marked cities
tell me when today became yesterday
when did we forget to sing to the rain

a silent dance of death in the eyes of time
there is nobody left to remind us of us
now the screams of an inflaming age are burning
in an underground river
did the insect creeping in the grass use to
walk like this as it did before
or didn’t we use to see it, not every cloud pours down
not every memory is kept in the chests of hope
i want to sleep, oh i want to sleep
in a darkness whose birds don’t become silent

Translated Into English By Baki Yiğit

AYTEN MUTLU

AYTEN MUTLU, a Turkish poet and writer (born in Bandırma, Turkey. Graduated from the Faculty of Management of İstanbul University in 1975. She was retired from The Central Bank. Her political activism began in high school, when she was fifteen years old. Being in political activity she took part in the Women’s Rights Movement too. She has published poetry, prose, short stories and essays on literary criticism. She also translated the works of a number of contemporary poets from English to Turkish that published many of them in periodicals. She translates the works of the women poets from Antiquity to the present days in selections from the world over. Her research on women poets from Antiquity to the present day, published in many literary magazines. She presented papers at some universities. Some of her poems took place in many countries, some magazines, newspapers and anthologies in France, Sweden, Germany, Spain, Senegal, Morocco, Italy, Serbia, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Macedonia, Romania, Spain, Argentina, South Korea, India and Russia. She is a laureate of Ibrahim Yildizoglu Literary Prize (1999), Poetry Prize of the International Meeting of the Poets of Yalova (2001) and Sunullah Arısoy Literary Prize (2005). Akköy Magazine Poetry Worker’s Award (2015) Ismet Kemal Karadayı poetry honorary award (2017)

SATIS SHROFF

The Bible A Melodrama?

The Bible became a melodrama
Netanjahu, a defaulter,
due to his debt to Palestinians,
Now that David has taken the gun,

To defend the country,
Who will play the harp?
Who will comfort Saul?

Jerusalem has been long conquered.
Now the Jewish eyes are set upon Gaza,
And the West Bank.
And offshore assets with promises of oil.

Children are slain by the hundreds
By cruise missiles and artillery fire.
Children, women, old men die.

The Jews cite from antique scriptures,
Insisting their doings are just,
And they are the true believers.

The troubadour has borrowed Putin’s refrain:
‘To take Gaza, like Crimea,
Because it belongs to us.

Our birthright.’

But this Orpheus` voice
In drowned by the screams
Of F-16s, shells, missiles;
Out to smash the Hamas underground hideouts.
Trees, shrubs, groves, stones,
Concrete blocks are blasted.

Unholy Vows

Both Hamas and Zionists have vowed
To destroy each other.
Both didn’t ask their people.
Airstrikes have killed thousands of Gazans.
The houses in Gaza have no bomb-shelters
There have nowhere to go.

The Hamas are crying others to join
And make a bigger war out of it.
Is resistance, armed struggle, the only option?
The refrain of the Palestinians remains:
“We have nothing to lose,
Except an entire generation of children and mothers.

Children Are The Hopes Of A Country

Stop killing the children and women.
In this butchery of genocide and murders
Propagandists have arrogantly made use of re-framing
To put the blame on the Hamas.

Over 12,000 in 11 years Syria.
Another 3,700 in Yemen.
In Ukraine alone520 children died in 21 months.
In the last two years 16,000 Palestinians
Have been killed.
Two thirds of whom are women and children,
And more than 40,000 have been injured.

Clare Daly speaks of wholesale killing.
It is unmitigated genocide perpetrated
By the Israeli war machine backed by the USA.
160 children slaughtered per day.

SATIS SHROFF

SLAVKA KLIKOVAC

Stolen Life

You are a paper boat,
Anchored in the sea of my tears.

You gather the morning mist
From my pupils;
You rob me of the moon's charm.

With my eyes, you look from the deck of the boat...
Even them, from me, you stole!

My soul with the morning twilight, you drink,
My lips wrinkled from agony, you steal.

What am I going to do without the lips
Whispering hope to existence?

My ears ring from a breakable anchor;
The word happiness gets out of sense.

I want my anchor,
To write, with it, the word happiness.

And the helm of my thoughts,
With hands, clumsily you grab,
My insides, in a knot, you tie,
The relief of the seabed, you create.

What am I going to do without the thoughts you stole?

Give me my pupils back,
It's not their fault,
That they recognize hands like a live coal,
Burnt by your disappearance.

What am I going to do without your pupils,
Stirring darkness to find a way?

For a day, sunken in the fog,
I seek the sun, so I can, 
A figure in the shade, find. 

I shove my palms in my teeth,
To silence a shriek.

A shadow bleeds in my unbridled fist;
Not even my shadow alive is...

A withered chest to me,
You didn't leave,
The food for the pledge of my blood;
It built a bosom shield.

You seize my driving forces,
That, into the target of an eye, you split,
And into the power of reproof, build.

How to, without a sigh, release a poison,
While, with dirt, you cover my wounds.

If you take my tears, too, their sea,
Your safe harbor will be.

When a stern against a dock, their tide breaks,
Sails away, the storm of sighs takes,
And tears splash against a masthead,
I will know then
In a tear, you and my stolen life live.

1590


UKRADENI ŽIVOT

Papirni  brod si 
usidren u moru mojih suza.

Sakljupaš jutrnju izmaglicu 
iz mojih zjena, 
mjesečevu mi otimaš čar.

Očima mojim gledaš  s palube broda... 
I njih mi uze!

Dušu mi osvitom jutra piješ, 
usne mi izborane  patnjom kradeš.

Šta ću ja bez usana što nadu su
postojanju šaputale?

Sluh mi  lomnim sidrom  zveči.
Riječ sreća ote se iz smisla.

Hoću svoje sidro
da rijec sreća njime napišem!

I kormilo mojih misli,
 nespretno rukama grabiš, 
utrobu mi u čvor vežeš, 
dnu mora reljef  gradiš.

Šta  ću ja bez misli što ukrao si?

Zjene mi moje vrati,
 nijesu one krive 
što prepoznaju ruke kao ugarke 
spržene nestankom tvojim.

Šta ću ja bez zjena svojih 
što razgrtale su tamu da put pronadju?

Tražim sunce danu,
potonulom u magli,
u sjenci lik da pronđem.

Dlanove zarivam u zube,
da krik utihne.

Sjenka mi krvari u razuzdanoj šaci.
Ni sjenka mi nije živa...

Nijesi mi ostavio  ni svele grudi 
što hrana su bile, zaloga krvi mojoj, 
štit njedrima  što gradile su.

Zamajce moje otimaš, 
u metu oka ih slamaš
u snagu prekora zidaš.

Kako  bez uzdaha osloboditi otrov 
dok zemljom mi pokrivaš rane.

Uzmeš li mi i suze  luka spasa
će ti more mojih suza biti.

Kada njihova plima krmu o dok slomi, 
oluja uzdaha jedra odnese,
suze zapljusnu vrh jarbola, 
tada ću znati 
da u suzi živiš ti i moj ukradeni život.
 

I wrote this poem in a train coupe in a complete dark on my way back from Niš and The Night of Branko Miljković, where I had won a poetry prize and the Skull Tower Statue. I was happy but emotionally drained. That’s how it is when you love everything that exists, but people don’t believe someone like those lives. Doubt is everywhere, and you give your emotions in vain. I didn’t have a clean paper. I wrote over typed material placing my finger to follow the line spacing. Neither is the poem reworked, nor I feel it needed to be worked on because it just poured out, and every word fell into its place. It’s one of my favorite poems because the pain that left me while writing made me lighter, and I felt healed.

Pjesma nastala u kupeu voza u potpunom mraku vraćajući se iz Niša  sa večeri Branka Miljkovića  kada sam dobila nagradu za poeziju i statuu Ćele kula. Bila sa srećna, ali u duši emotivna praznina.  Tako je to kada sve što postoji voliš, a ljudi ne vjeruju da takav neko postoji. Svuda sumlja i u prazno pružaš svoje emocije. Nijesam imala ni cisti papir . Pisala sam preko kucanog materijala , postavljajući prst kako bih pratila razmak izmedju redova. Pjesma nije doradjivana  niti osjećam da je trebalo na njoj raditi,  jer se jednostavno slila  i  svaka riječ je legla na svoje mjesto. Meni medju draže pjesme jer bol koji je od mene otišao pišući je,  učinio me je lakšom i osjetila sam ozdravljenje. 

FROSINA TASEVSKA

This Is The Place Of Death

This is the place of death
where “new heroes” grab guns
and rush to fight their war.
Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry.
The Dark Earth’s redeeming visions
affected the world by their decisions.
This is the place of death
the terror, the horror, the crime
spares no gender or children
they kill the bloom before their time.

This is that place of death
where everyone gasps for his last breath
bodies lie scattered on the ground
smell of blood all around.

War

War, today’s reality is war
the selfish world we live in today.
War ragged, faces dirt-encrusted, black.
The blood in the streets.
Sophisticated weapons
generate a war-like dance.
Missiles armed with warheads
are poised from a distance.
War. War. War!
No one knows, what it’s for.
Blanched skulls and bones.
There is no end to war!

Palestine
(acrostic)

Pain, riot, bombardment
And one graveyard.
Long Palestinian days and nights
Encountering the completion of a genocide.
Shooting, the sound of screaming.
Tearing up the land.
Intergenerational trauma,
No pain like their pain.
Enough death, enough sorrow, end war!

FROSINA TASEVSKA

FROSINA TASEVSKA was born in the Republic of Macedonia. She is a bilingual poet and writer. She writes in English and Macedonian languages. She has authored two solo poetry collections. She is an active member of various literary and creative platforms. Her writings are part of several national and international magazines, newspapers, journals, and anthologies. She has won many awards for her write-ups. She holds the degrees of B.Ed. (English) and currently, works as an educator.

SLAĐANA LAZIĆ

Last Breath

Waiting.
Yet no one is there to come back,
Through fearful night, endless, black.
Falling stars,
Accompanied with signs of death,
And millions of wishes merge into one.
Everything’s flashing, everything’s loud,
Someone takes in their last breath.
Still waiting.
While sorrow eats up a beating heart,
A trembling child hopes and dreams,
Trying not to fall apart,
Wanting to breathe, wanting to be.
Waiting.
Looking around, dawn is gray.
With no one to listen, what else awaits,
Wide spread cemetery,
Silence. No flowers, no gates.

Gone

A soul trembles leaving a child,
A dead woman, a dead man.
Smell of dust and despair,
A burnt land, bodies piled.
There is no sun, there is no moon,
Only missiles across the skies.
It’s all red, it’s so loud,
Smoke stifles fading cries.
Feet in ashes, shattered hopes,
Standing, gazing – all alone.
Does a rock in children’s hands
Scare your mighty, filthy gun?
While your littles smile and play
Mourning mothers now have none.

Cold Pictures

My skin’s cold,
My heart stripped naked
And for a while,
I’ve been falling
Deeper down.
Clouds are hovering
Over my street,
My head,
My hands.
Somehow, I guess,
The sky’s breaking apart,
And sunsets barely
Take my breath away.
I haven’t been breathing
For a long time anyways,
At least,
Not how I should’ve been.
Stars still shine,
They twinkle again,
They fall again,
Yet, I tiredly close my eyes.
Every glow is just
A dim light
And vivid pictures
Are hardly glimpsed.
I don’t cry anymore
And I barely remember smiling.

SLAĐANA LAZIĆ

SLAĐANA LAZIĆ: In 2021, Slađana Lazić published her first poetry book named ‘Svetionik na dlanu’ with the support of SPKD ‘Prosvjeta’ and the city of Tuzla. She is a member of the Literary Club ‘Meša Selimović’ in the SPKD ‘Prosvjeta’ in Tuzla. In addition to writing, she is engaged in drawing, painting and graphic design. In the Library of the City of Belgrade, on November 14, 2023, the promotion of the book ‘Srma za Aco Šopov’ was held, published by the Association ‘Makedonium’ from Belgrade. The book is a collection of poems and essays in the Macedonian and Serbian language, inspired by the character and work of the Macedonian poet and one of the founders of contemporary Macedonian poetry, Aco Šopov. Slađana Lazić is represented in the collection, and her poems have been translated to Macedonian. In 2023, Slađana was awarded for poetry in Trieste, Italy, ‘Concorso Internazionale di Poesia e Teatro Castello di Duino – XIX Edizione’, in the category ‘Poesie del cuore’. In 2020, Slađana Lazić won the third prize at the Concorso Internazionale di Poesia e Teatro Castello di Duino XVI Edizione, the largest competition of young poets in the world, which is organized under the auspices of the President of Italy and the Italian National Commission for UNESCO, and organized by the Association ‘Poetry and solidarity’ (‘Poesia e Solidarietà’). Poems of the young poetess were included and printed in English in the anthology of poems in Brussels 2018 (The Aquillrelle Wall of Poetry, book seven), in which authors from all over the world are represented. In 2017, the promotion of the anthology ‘Poslednji cvetovi zla’ was held in Đura Jakšić’s House in Belgrade in honor of the jubilee – 150 years since the death of the French poet Charles Baudelaire, in which she was also represented as one of the authors. She was awarded at several festivals, her works were published in anthologies in Belgium, Italy, Serbia, Macedonia, Slovenia.

FIONA KHAN

Poems For Palestine

Genocide
Gaping holes
Tortured souls
Singed hair, blank stare
Trembling heart
Faces filled with fear.

Drones and death
Cadavers and concrete
Livor mortis and phosphorus flares
Bombs and battery
From flesh-burning cannibals.

Vultures circle and hesitate
Flesh-eating poisoned with hate
Bullets and armory
Are food and water
and shelter, the skies domed
in darkness and fiery fire.

Don’t Speak

Do not silence our voices
Eradicate and berate us
We are the seeds
Of the Watermelon and the Cactus.
Where one represents our colors
The other is our resilience.

You cannot kill what your hatred spills
Welcomed into our bosom
You tore our fetuses’
Our Nakba and your hasbara
Genocide and infanticide

You cannot hide
Those lifeless eyes
Murdered in concentration camps!

Now it’s one bullet from settlers
A hail from the butchers
A thousand dreams in tatters
Homes sullied; children vilified
Young men neutralised
Women raped and tainted
Mouths taped…we must not speak!
Men brutalised, institutionalised
And mentally paralysed
When you call yourself a democracy
In colonial kakistocracy
With partners in crime bureaucracy
And…the world is an imprisoned plutocracy.

Still, I Rise

My spirit cannot be broken
The might of Salahuddin
The intellect of Memet
The courage of Rashideens
The wisdom of Faisel
Still, I rise …

Within me is the resilience of Aqsa
The Star of Bethlehem
The steadfastness of the olives
And the timelessness between the river and the sea.
Zephyrs carry our ancestral names
The sand, our bloodied corpses
Bricks are etched with our names
Our Culture is a testimony to our legacy
Still, I rise …

My soul sings the praises of Oneness
My heart and life are in His hands
Through calloused feet
Hands tied …
Tongue-tied…
Apartheid …. Still, I rise …
Above the haloed sunsets
and picturesque sunrise
as the circle of life continues
Still, I rise …

FIONA KHAN

FIONA KHAN is an internationally published and award-winning author, environmentalist and poet. She is a social entrepreneur and a Ph.D. candidate in Science and Technology Education. Fiona is the founder and CEO of the Global Forum 4 Literacy and she is a Global Goodwill Ambassador for Literacy and Humanity.

SUNIL KAUSHAL

The Pain Of Palestine

We the children of this land,
hounded, homeless, barricaded,
plead for a patch of untainted skies,
no embers raining from shells and mortars,
plead for a few feet of bloodless soil to grow grain,
that exorcises our veins of the genetic pain
that breeds hatred, terror, vengeance, since ages
all that indoctrinates the animal in us
akin to those who animalised us in cages.
We plead, please baptise us

with purity, love, and restrain

to purge Palestine of its pain!
Copyright@Dr. Sunil Kaushal

What Is Sacred?

Does a mosque called Al-Aqsa,
sacred both to Muslims and Jews
remain venerable any longer
drenched in blood
both spewing greater violence
competing claims over the site.
Jews call it the Temple Mount,
Muslims call it al-Haram-al-Sharif
(Arabic: ‘The Noble Sanctuary’),
neither noble, nor a sanctuary today
the sanctity lost in nomenclatures,
of which faith is real.
power changing hands
buy fear-filled faith shuddering
knowing not who is right or wrong
I pray to end the suffering
of all those in pain since ever so long.
Sacred is where sacrilege exists not
in innocent hearts of all children
Palestinian or Israelites
for that is where He abides
not in stony monuments
built by stony hearts.
Copyright Dr.Sunil Kaushal

Our Bloody Screens

Eyes glued to the TV or phones
millions watch gory images, live killings
splattering screens bloody, since months.
They grimaced in revulsion, horror,
clucked tongues, shook their heads
inwardly thankful they were neither
Palestinians nor Israelites.
The common man can do just that
should the world not stop in its track
to stem the rot seeping into human roots?
The privileged, sitting in safe chambers
blow the dog whistle, and a war is ordered,
young sons, husbands, fathers, brothers,
even some daughters, sisters, and mothers
are herded off to killing mines, kill or get killed.
Innocent civilians, babes at the breast, pregnant mothers
tottering elders, slaughtered, butchered, in His name.
Why this deafening silence? Compliance or cowardice?
Why has the world turned blind, dumb and deaf?
Soon there’ll be no space to bury the dead.
Who will then mourn whom,
cry over a grave, yours or mine?
for I see the world burning
I see the world turning
into so many Palestines.
Copyright@Dr, Sunil Kaushal

SUNIL KAUSHAL: Awarded author Dr. Sunil Kaushal, studied in schools all over India, her father having been an army officer. Her nomadic life visiting and living in new towns every 2 years has been very interestingly chronicled in her debut book of memoirs, Gypsy Wanderings& Random Reflections, which was awarded the Nissim Award by the prestigious International poetry group, The Significant League, in the non-fiction category for ‘exquisite prose’. She attended college at one of the most prestigious colleges, Isabella Thoburn College, Lucknow, India. Later she went on to doing her medical studies at Govt. Medical College, Amritsar, India, followed by 40 years of practice in Obstetrics-Gynaecology at Jalandhar, Punjab. Although she has been writing sporadically since her childhood, her writings were carefully tucked away from the public eye. At age 70 she learnt to use a computer and started writing full time, sharing her poetry and prose online. She is pleasantly surprised to discover the poet and writer within her being recognized, every time she wins a contest or award. This trilingual writer writes in English, Hindi and her mother tongue Punjabi, which she has never studied but is self-taught. Published in a number of National and International anthologies and magazines, some of her poems have been translated into French, German and Greek. Her writing is mostly woman-centric, romantic, sensuous, poems about marginalized people. She also writes philosophical, spiritual, besides humorous poetry.

ANTONELLA CAUSA

Palestine Is Magnificent

Long moans,
my heart cries,
bitter tears in Palestine,
the land promised by God,
a people loved and hated by men.
Love God and hate the evil one,
magnify my soul, oh God!
I lost my way home,
innocent souls fly in the skies.
Streets wet and stained with blood,
I look at red stains on white sheets.
Widowed women suffer,
wrapped in sad black veils,
they prostrate themselves on groaning coffins,
in mournful vigil.
Palestine, a land of pain.
Palestine, the promised land.
Magnify these souls, oh God!
May human anger be transformed into peace,
with faith, love and hope.
Let the light of union between brothers be lit.
May there be peace and serenity in all humanity.
Magnificent is the soil of Palestine, oh God!
Palestine, land of union and faith,
seek the love of everything in complete freedom.
Palestine is magnificent,
land promised by your beloved Son...
Magnify the souls in heaven, welcome them into your kingdom.
Oh God! Palestine cries and does not lose faith.
Pray for his children, magnify my soul,
in the sacred place of Palestine.
Magnify all the souls who come to You.
Oh God! Magnify the pure in heart,
 every sacred place in Palestine.
All Palestine is magnificent, oh God!

Magnifica la Palestina

Lunghi lamenti,
piange il mio cuore,
lacrime amare in Palestina
la terra promessa da Dio,
un popolo amato e odiato da uomini.
Ama Dio e odia il maligno,
magnifica la mia anima, oh Dio!
Ho smarrito la via di casa,
nei cieli volano anime innocenti.
Strade bagnate e sporche di sangue,
guardo macchie rosse su candidi teli.
Vedove donne soffrono,
avvolte in tristi neri veli,
si prostrano su bare gementi,
in veglia funesta.
La Palestina terra di dolore.
La Palestina terra promessa.
Magnifica queste anime, oh Dio!
L’ira umana si trasformi in pace,
con fede, amore e speranza.
Sia accesa la luce d’unione tra i fratelli.
In tutta l’umanità sia pace e serenità.
Magnifica il suolo della Palestina, oh Dio!
La Palestina terra di unione e di fede,
cerca l’amore di ogni cosa in piena libertà.
Magnifica la Palestina,
terra promessa dal tuo diletto Figlio…
Magnifica le anime nel cielo, accoglili nel tuo regno.
Oh Dio! La Palestina piange e non perde la fede.
Prega per i suoi figli, magnifica la mia anima,
nel sacro luogo della Palestina.
Magnifica tutte le anime che vengono a Te.
Oh Dio! Magnifica i puri di cuore,
 ogni sacro luogo della Palestina.
Magnifica tutta la Palestina, oh Dio!

Blood In Palestine

The leaden sky cries,
on the blood red of your veil.
A mother always awakes,
watches over his little daughter.
In his now secure kingdom,
it came with pure spirit.
His face is very dirty,
It's all the fault of a yokel.
His soul is so beautiful,
it is brighter than a star.
The silent moon darkens,
you were so precious to the earth.
People die painfully in Palestine,
in places of divine prayer.
Without peace and without love,
children are born heartless.

Sangue in Palestina

Piange il plumbeo cielo,
sul sangue vermiglio del tuo velo.
Una mamma sempre sveglia,
alla figlia piccolina fa la veglia.
Nel suo regno ormai sicuro,
è arrivata con spirito puro.
Il suo viso è molto sporco,
tutta colpa di un bifolco.
La sua anima è tanto bella,
è più luminosa di una stella.
Si oscura la luna silenziosa,
per la terra eri tanto preziosa.
Si muore con dolore in Palestina,
nei luoghi di preghiera divina.
Senza pace e senza amore,
nascono figli senza più cuore.

Sweet Mom

Cuddle me again dear mother,
I am your beloved little son,
who prays to you with folded hands,
alone today, at the foot of your bed.
Take me in your arms,
take me to the stars,
where are you sweet mother,
hold me close to your celestial chest
and I will look at the world from the most beautiful roof.
Tell me many stories of Jesus,
of his great love for us.
I'll tell you about my pain,
there is war in Palestine.
We cry and we die,
the blood flows in rivers.
Life no longer has any value,
the children are slaughtered,
the human has lost faith,
there is no more humanity and hope.
For this I beg you, sweet mother,
welcome me into your arms.
Give me so much more serene peace,
both on earth and in the sky of Palestine.

Dolce mamma

Coccolami ancora cara mamma,
sono il tuo adorato figlioletto,
che ti prega a mani giunte,
oggi da solo, ai piedi del tuo letto.
Prendimi tra le tue braccia,
portami tra le stelle,
dove sei tu dolce mamma,
stringimi al tuo celestiale petto
e mirerò il mondo dal più bel tetto.
Raccontami tante storie di Gesù,
del suo grande amore per noi.
Io ti racconto del mio dolore,
c’è la guerra in Palestina.
Si piange e si muore,
il sangue scorre a fiumi.
La vita non ha più alcun valore,
i bimbi sono trucidati,
l’umano ha perso la fede,
non c’è più umanità e speranza.
Per questo ti prego dolce mamma,
accoglimi tu tra le tue braccia.
Donami ancora tanta pace serena,
sia in terra e nel cielo della Palestina.

ANTONELLA CAUSA

ANTONELLA CAUSA: Our author focuses on the life of every individual. In her global thought “everyone is unique and important” and in life you don’t move forward alone. Uplift with good feelings: human soul, mind and heart. Antonella Causa often finds herself talking to intelligent souls and spirits. It reports prophetic words of current times, using simple language understandable to all. She predicts times that have turned into reality. In her the words flow like pure spring water, sometimes dictated by lights already experienced, eager to leave a further imprint of their existence. For her, the universe of the world dwells within us, with its own individuality and essence of spirit. In the verses we discover intimate thoughts and hidden passions, fantasies and dreams, desires that intertwine in intense and profound verses.

DANIEL DE CULLA

Gaza, Maritime City Of Palestine

There is no more blood in Gaza hospitals
Because all the blood has reached the sea.
There are no more sick people
Not even health personnel
Because some, health personnel
Has tried to escape
Only managing to suck his thumb.
The others, the sick
Have died by the grace of Death
Eternal companion of their lives
Without being able to reach the border on time
Or arriving in Egypt out of time.
In life buried the living and the dead
Believing that they will never escape danger.
Let us hear their laments:
-We are souls in pain.
Nobody and nothing can help or help
To the living and the dead.
Night has fallen over Gaza.
Western nations
Sitting in front of the television
Cheerful and very happy they say to each other:
-Now let's see the news about Gaza
What do we think
According to our understanding
A terror movie.
The tunnels under the hospitals rumble.
They barely remove the dead
Whose souls march to the Gazofilacio
Place where alms were collected
Income and jewelry
From the temple of Jerusalem.

Palestine

Palestine, the Holy Land
Or ancient Land of Canaan
Sad and heartbroken
Cries daily for the death of his children.
Of their massacred boys and girls
Because of the bombs and shrapnel.
The gods and demigods of the three religions
How badly they coexist with each other
Even though they say otherwise
They are silent like obscene people
Watching how it is distributed
The Death Cake
One God of them; the most armed.
Israel, what ardor uses, what effort.
Your God has married infamy
Of a warlord
Pestle, simpleton, oaf
With the mind of a serial killer
Who boasts, laughing, repeating:
-We have to finish them all
Embarrass them and defeat them
Hating a hypocritical and lying truce
Imposed by foreign voices
“Civilized” voices
Holy voices
Like the Vatican Pope
That don't let us colonize its lands.

Palestine Is Not A Tale

I don't cry out to any God
Because they are all cardboard
Or cloth lint. And I say:
How there will be destined subjects
To commit such horrible actions
Of wanting to murder
To an entire Palestinian people
Including men, women and children
Who have never done wrong
Because some awesome flies
Sometimes horrendous criminals
Flies called terrorists
Touch the balls
To the war lords and settlers
That, in a long procession
Of colonization, looting and robbery
Have shamelessly plundered 
And humiliated the Palestinian people
Their colonists despising
A small iota of humanity
As demonstrated.
This war against Gaza
It's just another party
Of Crime and Opprobrium
Against the innocent
That survive against history
Of inhumanity
That denies that to other peoples
We should have appreciation.
So we see, and time tells
How the world falsely called
“Civilized” with its Pope included
Instead of imposing yourself 
And saying “Enough”
Encourages crime, deaths
And the colonizer takes revenge
Because Israel has the best weapons
And to the warlords
That like to tell stories a cappella
Of serial killers.

DANIEL DE CULLA

DANIEL DE CULLA: Writer, poet, painter and photographer. Member of the Collegiate Association of Spanish Writers, Earthly Writers International Caucus, Poets of the World, (IA) International Authors, Surrealism Art, Friends of The Blake Society, Nietzsche Circle and others. Director of Gallo Tricolor Review and Robespierre Review. He has participated in numerous Poetry and Theater Festivals, has collaborated and collaborates with various magazines and newspapers such as: Otoliths; The Stray Branch, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Allien Buddha Zine, The Poet Magazine, Uppagus, ReSite, GloMag, Fleas on the Dog, LAROLA, RAL’M, Misery Tourism, Leavings, The Creative Zine, Terror House Press; and other national ones: Pluma y Tintero, Letras de Parnaso, Revista Azahar, Cultura de Veracruz; Vericuetos,  Sol Cultural Center, etc.

FRANCO CARTA

To Hiba Kamal Abu Nada 

Write your name on a stone
 while you are alive so that others 
they don't do it for you after your death. 

Mourning is a silence for the birds 
but I don't know if that's why they sing. 
I don't know if trees are happier. 
I don't know if there is joy in the deserts. 

I was afraid of the dark night.
Illuminated by the glare of the darts 
sparks that lashed like executioners, 
and the noise of the barrels until late. 
© Franco Carta

The Arghul 

I'm leaving because the smell of the earth still calls me, 
I will do it with all my determination. 
I won't stop, I won't look back, 
The shadows of the vines await me, I won't look back, 
The smell of boiled coffee is still there, where I go, 
I hear the echo of the Arghul calling to me and, inside me, 
the poems of the farmers at harvest time. 
How fragile life is when we live poems in estrangement, 
when the only thing separating us from them is the fence 
surrounding our clouds, 
our land, our sky, our rain. 
Don't cry for me Palestine 
Maybe one day the tears will take wings!
© Franco Carta

Caress Flower 

Caress flower, 
ah, flower of malice. 
Why did you joke with the militia? 
What is the price of your life? 
What weight does your opinion have? 
The opinion of all those people 
who prays for peace in all religions. 
But how much blood is shed 
without it happening any change? 

Flower of malice, 
ah, flower of torture 
the desperation of being hurt, 
of losing friends. 
The confusion, 
the smell of gas, 
The thunder of bombs 
ears ringing and burning eyes 
how to predict 
the hand that torments me 
the hand that shoots me 
and what was done there, 
with my clothes, with my pride. 
Honor is something 
who doesn't undress just say goodbye. 
Humiliation, however, 
lives naked. 
Power wears a uniform use weapon. 

Ah flower of malice, 
silent flower of caress... 
nowhere in any world. 
Ah, flower of malice, 
silent flower of caress... 
© Franco Carta 

FRANCO CARTA

FRANCO CARTA was born in Cagliari in 1961, has practiced the dental medical profession since 1986, and has collaborated as a volunteer with the “Operazione Africa” organization of the Jesuit Fathers since 2011. he writes poems in Sardinian vernacular and stories and poems in Italian. He is known by the pseudonym Hybrid Poet. He has published three poetic anthologies Numerous participations in cultural events, poetry festivals, publications in anthologies of poetry in the vernacular and in Italian, in anthologies of Poems and Stories in the vernacular and in Italian and winner of national and local awards and mentions. He is an expert juror in national poetry competitions.

JÓZEF TOMOŃ

At The Wall Of Death

I hear it flowing
darkness
loud during the day
Sometimes

and I see a shadow of a glow
in the black night hanging
above the cloud

To sympathize means too
create
I move my hand from the cold

and I feel like I'm writing
green
warm in scent
life

To Be Optimistic

As long as toughness
In the nation
and the country is still struggling
for freedom

when humanity heart
opens
for those where they go out
clouds

and at least a day sometimes
darkness
thoughts are confusing
in a snowstorm

let the rays burn
lights
sparkling in colors
hope

Dream Of Freedom

maybe it's just an echo
stopped halfway
where it ends
the answer comes

where he was scared
breath
confesses at dusk
to hide my fear

heard in the distance
through trembling hearts
neighbors

terrified of the tone
the sounds of death
on the current notes
life

JÓZEF TOMOŃ

JÓZEF TOMOŃ: Polish poet from Golcowa, born in 1961 author of the book of poetry “In the rocking hammock of thought” – co-author of 27 anthologies 5 Almanacs. He writes satire and poems for both adults and children. Distinguished and awarded in many international and national poetry and satirical competitions. He publishes his poems on the Internet on international and national poetry portals – Edux Edukacja, Brzozowiana pl, Bezkres, Poezje pl., in Wiadomości Brzozowskie, in Brzozowska Gazeta Powiatowa and on Facebook. His poems were read on Radio VIA, Radio Rzeszów and Radio Poznań, Radio Koszalin – on Internet Radio – on Radio Ty i Ja, “Sigma” and displayed on the walls at Bracka Street in Kraków. His poems were also published in the Vatican and Washington. He was interviewed in the press in the weekly “Nowe Podkarpacie” and in the monthly “Wiadomości Brzozowskie”. He was a guest of the hour-long broadcast “Ślady Pegaza” on Polish Radio Rzeszów. Personality of the Year 2018 in the Nowiny 24 plebiscite in the culture category – First place at the district level – third at the provincial level. Associated with the Zgrzyt Poetic Movement. He is a member of the ASSOCIATION OF ARTISTS AND WRITERS OF THE WORLD.

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA

Game Played By The Politics

Two kids were always friends
despite the fact of the ethnic tense.
On the shore they collect shells, 
and play ‘hide and seek’.
They wished for peace. 

Today, they are adults, 
who escaped the bombs,
the horror. They carry
in their hearts 
the tears of their moms
and their father’s pain.

Today, they are adults,
having their place to live
with two beautiful daughter and son.
They are adults, still wishing for peace.
Yes, the war is a big game 
played by the politics, not by kids.

Hearts Without Borders
(to my two medical students)

Today, they are two doctors
in ‘Doctors Without Borders’.
He is a Muslim; she is a Jew by faith.
They work shoulder to shoulder
in a surgical team, fighting death.

In the evening,
after all horror that they face all day,
both still have the moment 
to kiss in the emergency tent,
having dinner and to entertain.

Souk On Gaza Stripe
(real experience)

Silence. Two days of peace. 
No shooting, no detonations, no bombs.
On the two sides of the road,
are parked cars with open trunks.
They wait for customers to come. 
Some show off their bullet holes
on both sides and star-cracked windows.

Everything goes on sale. 
Everything has price, as it said.
Half bottle of whisky and open cigarette stack
are placed next to cadies and chocolate bars.
Next to the Muslim hijabs and veils,
are hand weaved kippahs
hanging up on a laundry pins.

On checkered clothes, jewelries of gold 
and glass beads in bowls 
are set next to weapons of all kind. 
German helmets from World Wars,
hand grenades and modern guns
lay next to children’s toys. Trunks
stay opened, inviting to make a choice.
Salers’ smiles. Nobody mentions the war. 

And... the bomb drops just 20 meters away, 
planting new deaths in the sand.
In two minutes, the souk just moves back
to another safer spot. “It is normal”, one says. 
“Just grab your money and go 
until you are still alive”, 
a teenage with gun gives me advise.

Tonight, on TV (here it goes!) 
the following news report skips this spot.
It highlights a bunch of conference meetings
“Life is back to normal”, says the anchor.
“Yes, it seems, but what is normal?” 
I ask the TV screen
before switching off its last beam.

Curse Or Blessing
(to kids of Palestine) 

Is this a curse or a blessing
to be born a boy on this land?
Is this a curse or a blessing
to be born a girl on this land?
-	On a land with endless war.

He plays with his friend among the ruins,
both having time to smile and run
barefooted after a hand-made ball. 
Does it matter that he’s Muslim,
and the other is Jew? They both pray
their fathers to come home.

She is a Jewish girl, 
sharing a hand-made doll
with a Muslim one; both singing
a lullaby song. They pray
their mothers will have
something cooked on the stove.

Childhood is just once. Kids are born
will love in their hearts. 
Don’t teach them how to pray for peace;
they already know. Indeed,
the adults break them a part
teaching them hatred and war. Fact!

PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA

Miss PETROUCHKA ALEXIEVA: “You must face life obstacles with strength and dedication, but healthy dosage of humor is the best weapon to survive” (P. Alexieva). Ms Alexieva is known as a well-developed LOVE poetry and a feminist writer, a guest-lecturer, academic mentor, key note speaker, TV talent and a highly recognized scholar. She was first published at age of 16 in the national poetry magazine “Rodna Rech”, Bulgaria. She is a Cum Laude graduate at CSULA (2009) and “All American Scholar Award“recipient (2008). She is a life-time member of four distinguished scholar societies. Ms. Alexieva’s poems appeared every Wednesday on ”Daheli Live!”  TV show. Ms. Alexieva speaks 8+ languages. Her literary, scholarly and photo-documentaries were highlighted in academic publishing, anthologies, feminist magazines, newspapers, opening ceremonies and numerous open mics in USA, Australia, Hungary, Romania, Transylvania, Bulgaria. Her lectures and poetry writings include, but not limited to ethnic cultures, ethnomusicology, and Japanese Tanka, as well. Most of them relates to women in traditional perspective, gender identity and contemporary feminism. She worked tirelessly with gifted and talented children – in ICAF, NASA, Visa Olympics and more.For her outstanding life-long honorary achievements, Ms. Alexieva’s name was included two times among the most distinguished Earth’s citizens list of NASA’s Mars Exploration Rover (2003) capsule and Science Laboratory Rover (2011) list, for which she has awarded with honorable certificates, as well. Her poem “My Gypsy Soul” dedicated to Sally Ride, the first American female astronaut, was recently selected for “Message in the Bottle” program of NASA’s Europa Clipper Mission.

RUHAN MAVRUK

Indefinable

Have we buried my sister, yesterday
Have a yellow flower approached the ground
Piercing her narrow vase up

Were they cutting down a tree.
Had the forest become ill.
Has she cried out for a moment
-Mom!
Has her blood splashed on the grass

Have a blue bird kept crying
in front of our door
till the morning.

The Children In The Vase

before years and years
did an old friend come up from distances
with wild flowers in her hand 

have I put them in the vase 
with my saddest hopes

 the other days have the children asked 
-why have we bloomed mommy!
-tomorrow!
have they repeated the same question in the following days

 one morning have I found them death
 leaning their hands on the shoulders of their mom 

have I left them in a wooden box 
 I called cemetery near my wounded childhood
 crying always

 welcome kids!
 never will we be giving up life

 will our hearts beat in the wild
 till the winds forget us…

Children In The War

gather little clouds on!
do we go to put out the fire
sieging all over the world

are we the kids having great hearts
when crushing the tanks, the apple trees
in Palestine, a hand is extended from Greece
for healing the wounds of the children

if a young fifteen years old
were found death at the bottom of a river
in Ağrı, would a little girl cry in Belfast
a jailer in Turkey would give
the last meal to a hungry baby in Africa

oh, my lady!
have fallen my eyes
on your hands

are you aware that!

RUHAN MAVRUK

RUHAN MAVRUK: Poet and writer (b. 9 September 1956, İstanbul). Human Right defender. She is a relative of the famous atomic scientist, İrfan Mavruk. She attended primary and elementary school in İstanbul. She graduated from the Economic and Commercial Sciences Academy, School of Journalism and Public Relations (1978). She did her graduate studies in the same field at the Institute for Social Sciences in 1991. While she was doing her doctorate studies at the Department of Social Sciences, she was removed from the university. Her professional life began as a journalist for the newspaper Milliyet as a law court correspondent in 1981. Later on, she worked as a teacher of English at private courses, a translator of medical texts at faculties of medicine and private courses and gave TOEFL and Proficiency in English lessons. Beginning in 1993, her poems and articles were published in newspapers and reviews such as Aykırı (member of editorial board), İnsancıl, İblis, Öğretmen Dünyası, Kybele, Öteki, Siz, Ütopya, Güzel Yazılar, Evrensel Kültür, Berfin Bahar, Atılım, Devrimci Demokrasi and Dayanışma. She was among the founders of the reviews Hergele and Kybele, and joined the editorial board of Gerçek Sanat Publications. She collected Mavi Dergisi First Poetry Award with her book İda Dağı Çöz Beni (Mount Ida, Untie Me). Mavruk produced and presented programs on culture and literature on some radio stations and was general broadcasting manager at Çevre Radyosu. She is a member of the Writers Syndicate of Turkey and the Literary Writers Association. WORKS: POETRY: İda Dağı Çöz Beni (Mount Ida, Untie Me, 1994), Leyladan Beri (Since Leyla, 1998), Issız Ada ve Savaş Zırhlısı (Poems, letters 2007, 2017), Toplu Eserler (whole poems), 2009) İncinmesin Kıyılarımız (we should not offend our shores, 2019).Hoşgeldin Geronimo December 2022. SHORT STORY: Fiyortlar- İnsan Atmak Serbest Çöp Atmak Yasak (Fjords – Throwing Man Free, Throwing Litter is Forbidden, 2005). ESSAY: Derinliğin Serinliği (Coolness of Depth, essays, aphorisms, 1996), Simurg Tufanı (Simurg Deluge, 2005).

SOAD AL-KWARI

The War On Gaza

---

There is no talk left to be written
The pens dried
And the words committed suicide
And the bodies of the children fell
On the margins of books

The war on Gaza

“The mask fell
About the mask
About the mask”
Gentlemen, honor
There is no talk left to be written
Oh the last poets of the century
Here we stand at your grave
And we repeat
My country is a washing rope
For spilled-blood wipes”
Like a choir, we repeat

“The mask fell

About the mask

About the mask”
And the mirrors of the dream broke
How many stories were lost in the corridors of time?
How many songs were repeated by the shepherds?
And the bands
And the story is not complete

---

The war on Gaza

There is no soul left in the soul
There is no sound left in the voice
I slaughtered the soul
And the sound broke
And it’s flying
Our souls are in the sky of shock
Seventy years and a month
Seventy years and a dream
Seventy years
And there is nothing left to write

*The breaks of the poet Mahmoud Drobash
*The Juk is a band of singers

A scene we all watched on TV the man carrying his son’s remains
imagined him a woman and compared him to myself

I’ll Close My Eyes And Sleep

She was watching me in silence
And I was watching her in panic
The woman who carries her son
In a piece of white cloth
And I was carrying a piece of me.
In a velvet cart
And I’m sobbing
She was screaming
And I was screaming like her
Oh my sleeping heart in the soil
Oh my life, what I see is fading
Slowly in front of me
I turned my back on her
And I walked
I didn’t understand the situation
She is a mother
And I’m a mother
She digs her son’s grave with her nails.
And I’m moving my son slowly to sleep.
And we both are in pain
But there is a different between us
The woman who hurts her son’s remains
And bury it in the soil
And I’m watching my son
And he plays in the garden of the house
I won’t look at the TV
Oh, mother’s heart
And my pain
I won’t look at the TV
I won’t look
And I will hug my son in my arms
And I will pray for her
I will pray to my Lord a lot
And I’ll close my eyes and sleep

We Will Not Fear Death

We will not accept this situation
Despite the bombing and destruction
We will not accept
We will not kneel to anyone other than the Lord
And at the door of truth
We will stand a lot
And we will not fear death
They killed us many times
They isolated us from the world
And they destroyed us
But we will stand
Very much at the door of truth
And we will not fear death

---

The childhood that was buried
In front of everyone’s eyes
Death that danced
Above the graves
And he drank blood
Innocent people
Bodies everywhere
And a dream flies overhead
Everything is here
In Gaza, he resists
Despite the pain and groaning
We will remain steadfast
At the door of truth
We will stand a lot
And we will not fear death

SOAD AL-KUWARI

SOAD AL-KUWARI: A poet. Cultural Advisor at the Ministry of Culture. Coordinator of the International Poetry Movement in Qatar. Works Published: It wasn’t my soul – eloquent poetry (2000). Desert Heiress – eloquent poetry (2001). Searching For The Age – eloquent poetry (2001). A New Door For Entry – eloquent poetry (2001). The Queen Of The Mountains – eloquent poetry (2004). The Complete Poetry Works – eloquent poetry (2022). Participated in various literary activities inside Qatar and in other countries such as Oman, the United Arab Emirates, the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Yemen, Sudan, France, Switzerland and Colombia and Honduras.

TYRAN PRIZREN SPAHIU

Destructive Forces Are At Work



Humanity rushes down the wrong road

pour life energy to live on

in some places lights of life shine

across the fence some suffer for water and food.

*

Armament weighs heavily in the world

glaciers melt in the Arctic and south

underground cities are built,

danger threatens whole globe.

*

Wickedness new world order reigns

shadowing goals, in the dark they approve decisions

cooperate at the expense of cultures

in vain day and night are heard logical bells

*

Dependent, captive, being a network prisoner

they conduct our time, life and future

we are followed by sophisticated cameras

cut and sew world economies.

*

They openly threaten the good globe

half of the population must be wiped out

act destructive forces, politicians do not react,

I'm afraid one day it will be too late!

 

Castle Of Irony 

  

Golden feather, detached from the light of life

very lonely as black clouds

knows

standing is on the rock of the storm

torture is bringing the end in an isolated castle.

*

By people being deceived

the young man mourns in the basement

stutter

it is before the end of life

whisper, I am the voice of the people

I go

soon, the last strength will give up the soul

horror, he is lying on his deathbed.

*

Inside the spacious walls

smells fetidness

heavy breath, moisture, mold, fatigue

guillotine, blood odor, nausea, reminds us

ending of the irony of verses

suffering life, devastating miseries.

*

Shocking, is heard the rappelled voice

chests shake

mercy, please, stop, kill me

do end your fiesta!

*

No rescue, lost is roar of the most beautiful existence

nothing can be done

pain

surroundings covers mortar silence.

*

Feelings of salvation of the devilish surroundings

suddenly has entered into the body

grabbed by the magic of tranquility

fast to be ended the circus of punishment



Death Sellers!



Today, hidden, I entered the world of ignorance

heard, medieval, phobic voices

being named as politicians, analysts of war

poor beings in life and wisdom 

letters are very disappointed!

guarding at the door of awakening

entering the new millennium

invitations reached close-eye arrogant

vain, hoped to be delivered to the right address.

*

People still dream

next day I met the caretaker

apologized for the prisoners' blindness

knowledge is confused, descended into the abyss

claiming to earn praise

ashamed are even rays of the sun

*

They tend to leave behind verses

lovingly nurture hate

poaching the destitute with impatience

surpassing clergies of reconciliation

I ran lightning

couldn’t endure watching

threw my composure into the beautiful poetry

there I found justice of letters

demagogy of death-sellers’ verses should disclose.

TYRAN PRIZREN SPAHIU

TYRAN PRIZREN SPAHIU was born in Kosovo-Europe and graduated with a degree in English Language and Literature. He was awarded Poet of the year by Pegasus Albania. He authored SIX novels, Never Back Again and Twenty-One Poetic Verses books (over 4000 poems) in addition to Dream Language English Grammar-Visual English Dictionary.

DONNA MCCABE

Please Peace Now

This world has become a turbulent place
Full of anger, destruction and hate
So much violence against one another
Humanity turning brother on brother
We need to compromise, to unite, to bond
So peace can be restored, humanity can stand strong.
Donna McCabe ©

Why War?

Under attack
Bullets flying
Breaths coming in uneven gasps
Nations embroiled
In war and strife
Peace is the answer
Not bomb or blast
Lives are lost
And torn apart
Because nations can't get on
What the hell are we doing?
Where did we go wrong?
A silence that's so quiet
It's deafening
Descends
It's almost eerie to the ears
Pressures of war are heightening
Going on for years and years.
Donna McCabe ©

Heroic Hearts

An army of young men marching
To retain power where it has been misused
To protect and serve the innocent
Who are being tortured and abused
This dance of death
It shows on their flesh
The horrors they have seen
This reality is no comparison
To that childhood dream
And yet they stay
And bravely fight
For justice and for peace
Hoping with all their heart
That one fine day
This war will cease.
Donna McCabe ©

A Heroe's Cry

War knows sorrow and disgrace
It knows the horror
That shows on one’s face
It is a horrible extreme
Where lives are lost
By people unseen
We see the carnage
The bloody, the bruised
The unfortunate and abused
The horrors and reality of it all
Are forever imprinted
On the souls of men
Crusaders, visionaries
Voices crying for justice and peace
Fighting a war
In this godforsaken place.
Donna McCabe ©

Hope Matters

Hope matters
It keeps us going
It gives faith in times of adversity
The strength and courage to carry on
To keep persevering
Even through the darkest of times
It is a flame
That forever flickers deeply.
Donna McCabe ©

Freedom

I felt freedom today
Felt it was right over me
Through me
Was uplifted briefly
In its carefree emotions
No cares, no worries, just peace
For the slightest moment in time
All was still and calm
A sense of new appreciation
Now lives within me.
Donna McCabe ©

DONNA MCCABE is an established poet from South Wales, UK, with over twenty years’ experience. Her work has gained her multiple accolades within her field of literature. From being published in journals, magazines and anthologies both nationally and internationally, she is also a respected admin on many social media pages as well as having her own Instagram page,

IRIS MIRANDA

Cedar Pot

Today is a cool rainy day in the tropics… invites one to linger, gloat and drink hot chocolate with potato cheese - my grandmother's recipe. There is little blue in the sky, because of the clouds; and here I see myself comparing its blue-gray background with that of my computer. I feel like thinking that both are an extension intertwined by the needle of my hands… I weave the dream of a dying child in a desert of selfishness… I think about how from the water I move to its hollowness, to his thirst for understanding, to present to you a desert that flows between my soul and his body… Here is my hope, that everyone's gaze thirsts never for nothingness.

Madrigal (Song) Of The Enemy Mothers

And He created the most beautiful look
and made it eternal dew

transparent like the light of dawn...

and Sarah, in captivity of pupils
in Ahmad's eyes,
forgets her pain;

and Esther raises her face
to the cries of her newborn Abir:

Sweet is the calm in the light of love.

He said: Be the most beautiful sight
under the light of dawn
and placed it eternal on their foreheads:

mother's eyes
in the eyes of the son.

Desert Optics

The view aspires and confuses
the glass with water.
The cobra swirls and writhes
under the uninhibited floating blows
that scratch her, caress her.

This desire for rain is more crystal
if sunk in your open sky.
Dune is your hermaphrodite body
intricate, sensory, lighthouse.
They are lives on the run
in the cloud that reaches my eyelash dusted with attempts.
It is so easy to hate everything and nothing,
of the scorpion and the rodent…
It is the song, the desert.

Ahmad watches through the burning smoke
their parents who exploit
after
the explosion.

Ruins in motion.
The stars always twinkle hope
behind death.

They say that the last thing seen by the soldier,
was the little drop of courage in his little face.

They say that the last thing seen by the child,
was his tormented compassion.

Some bloody pieces of the soldier
                remained recognizable;

of the child, only this memory
scattered
in salt crystals.

War binocular
-My son sees me die... 
may my child live long, God, protect him!

-My son has died…
my heart is blind lightning
of his destroyed image!

IRIS MIRANDA (1961, Puerto Rican), is a poet and Spanish Literature Professor at the Universidad Politécnica de Puerto Rico. Published writer: Noches de luna (2007); Alcoba roja (2011) which includes short stories; Óptica del desierto (2013), about Gaza; Flor de Luna Moonflower (2014), poetry for children; Velos de la memoria (2019); and Tacitas de café (2020). Her literary works have been recognized in literary competitions and published in local as well as in international magazines and anthologies. As cultural promotor she has been part of the Festival Internacional de Poesía en Puerto Rico Director´s Board and coordinated many cultural activities such as Certamen Literario UPPR.

KAMARUDEEN MUSTAPHA

A Palestinian Widow Remembers Rahab

                               1
Rahab, I measure your unshed tears in a
giant sieve, and weigh it side by side with
that shed by Judas Iscariot as he put a 
knot of rope around his holier neck.
Rahab, I gather the innocent accursed brethren
Blood of men women children and succulent
ladies of Jericho in tankers and storages,
side by side with the innocent Palestinians
blood shed to irrigate the planted settlements
of Gaza strip and Golan heights like parasites
flowering rose redder than blood of infants
massacred in the much-sung village of Darwish
brother poet.

                              11

Rahab, I wonder what delight you felt in you
as you thrilled to the caressing fingers of
Salmon of Judah after he had wedded your much
prostituted self. Tell me Rahab, did you still feel
like a bride, over aged one at that? or a spoil
of war that killed your many paramours and
brethren’s? War fought with divine dynamos of 
horns and hossanahs that razed your birthplace to rubbles

                               111
Rahab, some called you a divine traitress 
(As if there were things divine and infamous)
for having sold your people and your land
into death for the thirty-shekel prized possession
between the thighs of Salmon of Judah, just
like they call divine and holy the annihilation 
of my ancient uncles and aunts to moral justify the 
lust of marauders and oppressors. Therefore
I will call Judas more divine and holier for 
having sold my Lord Jesus for thirty shekels
as a sacrificial lamb to reanoint this 
paradise lost for God.

Why Could We

Why could we just allow them to die?
Why could we just allow them to die?
Why could we allow the missiles to keep
on falling?
Why could we allow the missiles to keep
on falling?
Why do we hold our cowardly peace and okay this pogrom?
Do we call this civilization?
Or brutalization?
Why does our humanity defy so huge a savagery?
Why do we know the truth and refuse to
say it?
Why do we know the right path but loath
to tread it?
One thousand and more people in just a night!
Twelve thousand people in less than a month!
A race being exterminated before our very
modern gaze!
Why do we call the ancients savages?
What killing machines have we become!
Like lions in the wild, like marauding leopards in the jungle
If we can condone this vegeance of vegeance of vegeance of vegeance
Hatched in the deepest darkness of ancient time
To lick a people clean, heads and toes, 
Roots and branches, stems and tendons, 
Today and tomorrow, from the face of this earth,
If we could shout annihilation from our corners of hurts
And have it echoed across all civilized patios
Sure, the barbarians in us have never gone to sleep
The Huns are here holding sways in the grand Roman Curia

I Have The Right Of First Comer

I have the right of first comer
I am not of the mushrooms
That sprout just over the night
And spread like the sea and shore sands
I come of the oaken groin
I have grown over millenniums

Do you remember Melchizedek?
He was my father
A priest of the Most High God
 Do you remember Salem
That was my city

I was birthed by truth
And peace
But you brought spears and arrows and deceit
From across the Sea of Blood
And you brought dynamos too
When you came from the West
And the trails of peace
Have since absconded 
When you stole the earth from beneath my feet

KAMARUDEEN MUSTAPHA is a Nigerian writer who writes across genres. His poems and short stories are published in various online and offline platforms. Three of his children’s books, two novellas “Winners Never Quit” and “Born to Rule” and a poetry volume “An Onion of Many Layers” are in the current approved list for students in junior secondary schools in Oyo State, Nigeria.

MARY BONE

When The Dirges Arose

Time froze when the dirges arose
from the hills and valleys.
God knows.
He sits on his throne.
Voices and screams reach his ears,
amongst the fears.
the laments, the broken hearts.
The purveyor of justice
will right all wrongs.

Valley Of The Dead

Prayer mats are rolled out,
in the valley of the dead.
Vultures hover above.
God hears the cries
from his heart of love.
He is not to be provoked.
Smoke arises to his nostrils
As fires are stoked.

God Is In Control

Chants arise
as people die.
Blood flows.
The Lord knows all and will answer
in His own time.
His nostrils smell the smoke. 
He sees the devastation.
We all look up.
Only He is in control of this nation.

MARY BONE has been writing poetry since childhood. She has written two books of poetry and is working on a third book. Her poems have been published at Our Poetry Archives, Literary Yard, Words of the Lamb, The Active Muse Journal, Ink Pantry, Spillwords and other places.

ANGI CRISTEA MELANIA

Dumb Smile

Walls came down
And the nights are falling...
The lights of death are growing
Tomatoes.

It's war
And the jade soldiers
It creeps up
In children's beds.

Smiling barbie dolls,
The sky darkens...
The city is on its knees
And a child
He looks for his feet
In Rubble.

Among terrified adults
Ghosts of dogs pass by.
A little girl in a pink dress
Wave your hands
From the suspended floor
Crashed last night
Of the killer explosions.

It smells like war
and the birds invaded the sky

Surâs mut 

S-au prăbușit ziduri
Și nopțile scad...
Cresc luminile morții 
Roșii. 

Este război 
Și soldații de jad
Se strecoară 
În paturi de copil.

Surâd păpuși Barbie,
Se întunecă cerul...
Orașul este în genunchi
Si un copil
Își caută picioarele
În Moloz.

Printre adulți terifiați 
Trec fantome ale câinilor.
O fetiță cu rochie roz
Flutură mânuțele 
De la etajul suspendat
Prăbușit azi-noapte
De exploziile ucigașe. 

Miroase cumplit a război 
iar păsările au invadat cerul

A Touch Of Peace

Is morning
and children go to school.
Everything seems clear.
Especially the mother's voice
and father's unpolished voice.

Only grandmother dispenses justice,
Cleanse the eye of the plain
And he puts his grandchildren to bed
In the bed where peace springs
The last sunset.

Entire cities
They turn into giant toys,
in quenched tears between his fingers
And like the girl with the matches
Children stick their noses together
Of the windows of the rich houses.

Un strop de pace

Este dimineață  
și copiii merg la școală. 
Totul pare limpede. 
Mai ales glasul mamei
și vocea tatei neșlefuită.

Singură bunica împarte dreptate,
Curăță ochiul câmpiei
Și își culcă nepoții 
În patul de unde izvorăște pacea 
Ultimului apus.

Orașe întregi 
Se transformă în jucării uriașe,
în lacrimi stinse între degete
Și precum fetita cu chibrituri
Copiii își lipesc nasurile 
De geamurile caselor îmbelșugate. 

Water Kites

Child's eyes...big and sad
I look at the soldiers marching to the front.
It's so quiet
so that the voice of newborns is heard.
Cats with purple ears
I'm begging for love.

In the train station an old woman is crying.
He missed the last train.
This life is cruel.
Our fathers and sons die...
Who started a needless war?

The pigeons gather
At the artesian well in the center
Where he plays the violin
A simple old man.
In his torn clothes
The queen of the night disguised herself.
The city is slowly falling asleep.

Zmeii de apă 

Ochi de copil...mari și triști 
Privesc soldații care mărșăluit spre front.
Este atâta liniște
încât se aude vocea nou-născuților.
Pisici cu urechi mov
Cerșesc iubire.

În Gară o bătrână plânge.
A pierdut ultimul tren.
Viata aceasta  este crudă. 
Ne mor părinți și  fiii...
Cine a declanșat  un război inutil?

Porumbeii se adună 
La fântâna arteziană din centru
Unde cântă  la vioară 
Un bătrân simplu. 
În hainele lui rupte 
S-a deghizat regina nopții.
Orașul adoarme încet.

ANGI CRISTEA MELANIA: Born in the city of Craiova, the poetess Angi Cristea Melania teaches Romanian language and literature at the “Marin Sorescu” School of Arts. She has published several volumes of poetry: (Diz) harmony, More / Less feelings, The stones of the sun. of Pokemon, 777 of appeals, Flori de iris / Giaggioli. He has obtained numerous awards both nationally and internationally. European Poetry Award stand obtained in 2017 at the “Europoezia” International Festival (Braila) “Alfredo Pirrole” Award awarded to Trriugio, Italy at the Trriugio International Festival (2018), received Grand Prix at the Corona Internazionale Award festival (2018). She has published in numerous prestigious literary magazines and is appreciated by writers and literary critics in Romania and Italy. He received a diploma from the Romanian Embassy in Milan for special cultural merits in promoting Romanian culture in Italy and Romanian culture in Romania

ANJUM WASIM DAR

Blocks Of Pain

No words no thoughts
No feelings no fears
Life is dust, blood, pain
Life no more, yet new- 
Reasons for breathing
Reasons for crying
Hoping for sounds, soothing spirit
In vain
Missiles rain, again and again
What is the world gaining, when
Homes are crumbling, bodies burning.
Palestine! The perpetual target...
Bullet pellet shroud, casket,
War faith sacrifice, defense...
Right to Life, to live or die?
Wait? For the blowing of the trumpet...

Voice Of The World For Palestine

Voice of the people is the voice of the Almighty
Pain fills the heart as tears flow over
Sights of small still bodies enshrouded, remain
Invisible to the deliberate blind...
As cries of freedom justice and peace, fall
On dead deaf ears of ignorant minds
Whither humanity in humankind?
Rampant is chaos by the devil’s mastermind
In whose hand is the browband? 
Whose desire to rule over all land?
How long oppressions will. Command?
How long oppressed will withstand?
Words have failed in history, peace came with guns
Words words words will fail again, 
Alas! Aggressors mean business
Posing justice like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
Out is the wit, when in is the stum
Countless may die, for a true cause
Useless will be just a humanitarian pause.

Palestinians Blasted

Facing genocide. Staring at death. Ashy shocked shaken
amidst rubble, debris of devastation, homes no more.
Iron fire rain falling from the skies, bombed on their own
Homeland. Who is crushed babies’ kids’ parents, all
Doctors faint, find their kin dead on stretchers wheeled in
No end in sight as death ravages freely. Hark! Is it time?
For faithful martyrdom ordained?
Thousands shrouded, white is the ground sacred
Yes, the land is sacred. Defend they must the faith is true
For it they burn loose limbs shed blood sacrifice loved ones
The world will end. To Allah is our Return.

ANJUM WASIM DAR is a migrant Pakistani of Kashmiri origin. Her Education is MA English Literature & Am. Studies. MA History, Punjab University.  Distinction in English Language. Post Graduate Diploma in TEFL and CPE, Cambridge University UK. She is an International Poet of Merit, Bronze Medal, Award Winner, ISP USA-2000, Short Story Writer, Author of Novel for Young Adults, “The Adventures of the Multi Colored Lead People”. Anjum’s poems have been published in various Anthologies in the UK, USA ITALY SYRIA and INDIA

AYTEN MUTLU

The Needle

the tide of the sky
shivers in the Near East
the pensive time returns to the beginning
the winds change, the needle reels
it draws pictures of chaos on dreams 
turning and turning
 
the needle feels dizzy
back-and-forth
in the tide of the day.
it embroiders chopped off heads 
and eyes of a child crying
on cerecloths
 
behind the seven seas 
from the Far West to the Near East
the tailor cuts out 
shirts without buttonholes
tarry shirts plucked from magma
 
in the tailor’s hand 
the needle with a long thread
impetuously goes deep into the wound
 
the needle is hungry
the needle is naked
one day it sees red
and then stitches images of taylor
on the chest of the hell
 
the embroidery frame becomes broken

Wet Dog
                         for Gaza

it's raining blood
shouting and screaming blood
The sky is so wide and the rain is so dark
the soil had collapsed
overturned garbage bins
even in the weeping earth
There is no shelter anymore

What to look for, where to escape
the trees lost their leaves
The leaves are silent on the trees
The smell of burnt meat mixes with the rain
This naked loneliness person's sobs
hurts my flesh

This hand is that little girl's
She did caress my head
with her broken blue beaded wrist
Now a hellish bullet in her belly
Her smile had shattered in his mouth

I'm climbing a mountain of fire
unhappy butterflies in my chest
Where are these women's screams running to?
these torn lullabies

It's raining red at night
fire flowers hurt the night
Dead birds are flying around my head
and the children are those festive children

I owe it to God now
how if i were human
I don't know if I would endure it.
both victim and executioner
to the shame of being

Do You Hear?
 
shopping centers are being closed, breads are tired
foggy shades in child eyes
poppy field remained seedless
mountains are full of holes, plains are dead
leaves are between falling and remaining
 
bells are ringing
 
sandmen are telling tales
to the crowd which has forgotten to grow up
underground and overland are both or sale
thornbushes are being scattered in the old wind
roses do not spring up on the concrete fields anymore
 
bells are ringing
 
time is whispering we are not listening
the songs of steed days
we exchange infinity to moments
we exchange ourselves to others
our ego is between staying and leaving
 
bells are ringing
 
i am quiet you are quiet he is quiet
whereas the crier of hate is not quiet
brothers are thirsty for each other’s blood
bowls are rusting our hearts are icing up
our blood is between stopping and running
 
bells are ringing
 
we are at the broken mirror of history
we have forgotten about our old faces
shattered crabbed hopeless
still, we are memorizing waiting
we are waiting for the last judgement as if waiting for Godot
 
bells are ringing!!!!

Stone Also Became Silent
 
stone also became silent my love
now we are nowhere we went
the leaves of tears crashing the sky in the storm
don’t cover
children’s graves anymore
in this eternal house of winter
 
stone also became silent my love
the towers of the evening lowered into the grass
the tree trying to remain standing got tired
the pain hurting my insides
can’t tell nothing to nobody
 
the sky has decayed
the rains don’t make the sea wet anymore
like a flower that fell down in the pavement
we live with semi-dead animals in our blood
the inside of our bones is getting darker
 
we used to know everything, i remember,
the situation of the world used to come under us
oh, come and see even stone became silent
the time of loneliness of the iron night
is still moaning where words fail
 
stone also became silent my love
the moonlight the valley of the dead crabs
the mountains were buried in the marked cities
tell me when today became yesterday
when did we forget to sing to the rain
 
a silent dance of death in the eyes of time
there is nobody left to remind us of us
now the screams of an inflaming age are burning
in an underground river
did the insect creeping in the grass use to
walk like this as it did before
or didn’t we use to see it, not every cloud pours down
not every memory is kept in the chests of hope
i want to sleep, oh i want to sleep
in a darkness whose birds don’t become silent


Translated into English by Baki Yiğit

JEANNA NÍ RÍORDÁIN

Parallel Universe

While strolling through social media, I was startled to find
Pictures of Israelis & Palestinians smiling & holding hands 

For a second, I was fooled & then I read the caption –
AI-produced imagery 

I refreshed the page & was newly bombarded by air strikes
& falling rockets, drone attacks & bombed-out hospitals,

News reports & flashing images, videos of screaming 
Children, 

Urgent appeals & pleas for ceasefire – war in real time 
exploding on my newsfeed.
 
Biblical-Scale Catastrophe

This winter in the Holy Land,
Not far from where Jesus was born

Children are being buried under rubble,
Rockets are falling on their heads

Infants gasp for air in hospitals,
Or starve for lack of powdered milk

Toddlers cry out for their Yummas,
Not knowing that they’re already dead

A spokesman for the UN says: If there is 
Hell on earth today, its name is Northern Gaza. 

The Children Of Gaza Speak

We don’t care about land or borders,
History Or Politics

We don’t care about revenge – we
Have no hate in our hearts

We just want to go outside & play
On the streets of Rimal

To sleep in a warm bed at night 
& not feel afraid

To go to school, to learn & grow,
To dream, to have a future

We just want to live beautiful lives
Without rockets falling on our heads.

JEANNA NÍ RÍORDÁIN is a writer from West Cork, Ireland. Her poetry has appeared in Quarryman Literary Journal, Drawn to the Light Press, Swerve, New Isles Press, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Burrow, and Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal among others.

S. ABDULWASI’H OLAITAN

Blue Bird

folks like us are not used to
looking far ahead into the future.
we can't tell for sure when tomorrow is due to arrive.
neither do we see clearly, what our  
devotion could bring us
all i see now, is smoke coming from Palestine's border 
where harmony is made of blood,          
the cuts on the blue-bird refuses to mend, 
shattered into pieces          thrice the size of suya
then where is the peace?
Peace?
in Nigeria Blue-bird is symbol for peace 
not for me!
what do you call turbulent when peace is translates 
to massacre?
 i shall live to be reborn 
& share the tale of how Palestinians live the 
night where moon doesn't reach,
how their country's memorandum shed
paper tears
& how they warm the night; half sleep, half waking. 
in the evening of life. 
& Israelis didn't see the cake coming 
Palestinians didn't see the crescent 
of Rabi Al-awwal. 

S. ABDULWASI’H OLAITAN Author of 4 poetry chapbooks (The story I never tell, my live object d’art, fate that went astray and We’re the history that doesn’t know how to die) Nigeria redemptory poet, writing from a hole 54 kilometers away from Kwara state. He’s a lover of God and his parents. In love with literature, he enjoys writing poetry in both turbulent and peaceful moments. He writes poems and sometimes plays into fiction. His works had been anthologies or forthcoming on different literary magazines, such as The graveyard zine’s magazine, United Global Renaissance (UGR), Poetry Soup, empire arts and culture, beautiful minds community MMXVI and elsewhere.

TIL KUMARI SHARMA

Life Of Palestine

 Risky and national loss
 Sounding in right of settlement
 Later killed many in battlefield
 Children and many others are in ditch of nationhood.
 The tears in the human pain
 The thinking human equality for all
 No matter of religions
 All are equal.
 All are humans and should be lived equally.
Life of Palestine is in suffering later.
 Unkind is crime.
 To revenge is not work of humanity.
The war of both is very much defective.
 Please pause war of both sides.
 Conflicts bring disaster in both sides.

All Religions Born For Humanity

 Born equally with same process
 To fight is non-sense.
 Killing is not ethical world.
 Jews and Palestine are equal.
 The national crisis should not be there.
 No need of battle to kill each other.
 The survival is need to all humans.
 See grave is one for all.
 Why do people kill each other ?
 Real humanity is equal religion to all.
 Respect each other to stop war.
 Pause to kill humans.
 Live with unity of humanity.
 All are human beings.
 No matter of religion to kill each one in battlefield.

Need Of Survival

Humanity in high level
Loss in misunderstanding
 Modern weapons are used to kill one generation as human.
 Both people from Israel and Palestine are equal.
 You should respect each other.
 Need of survival to Palestine too.
 Palestine needs home land.
 They fought to have land of existence.
 The identity crisis of defeated world;
 Have to have existence of all religions in humanity.
 The theme of all religions is only one.
 That is humanity with high consciousness.
 World should be one.
 To create humanity and moral in heart
 Love the victims and homeless people.
 Lead the world with common sense of ethics in world.

TIL KUMARI SHARMA: Internationally renowned Poetess Til Kumari Sharma was born in Paiyun 7- Hile, Parbat, Nepal. She is pursuing a PhD in English from Singhania University in India. By profession, she is an English teacher. She has published more than thousands of poems, some essays, stories, articles and other literary writings in the national and international newspapers, magazines, groups and anthologies over the world. She achieved awards, certificates, accolades, honors and diploma from different organizations in recognition of her brilliant literary works. She is Guinness World Holder poetess.

WILLIAM ZHOU

The Israeli-Palestinian War 
Has Hurt My Feet

The Palestinian-Israeli War 
has once again erupted into modern brutality
The missiles targeted clearance of human life
The bombs destroyed the entire building
Soldiers are shooting soldiers hatefully
Soldiers also killing civilians hatefully
The hatred of history is deeply rooted and leafy
The newly added hatred encircling and suppressing peace
The Jerusalem I've visited and read
The Gaza Strip that I have never set foot in
Both suffering from hurting and pain in the war
Pain, infecting the Earth
Pain, climbed onto my foot yesterday
The suffering of Palestine and Israel has transformed into
my gout, it has imprisoned me at Qianmen Hotel
I have to bear the pain of life
I have to endure this pain of nature
I can't go home, but I still have a home
No matter how painful, my home and life are still alive
Palestinians and Israelis in War
Home and life are turning into ruins

On October 12, 2023, at 3:16 am, Qianmen Hotel, Beijing

At This Moment
People In Gaza Are Dying

The suffering of history has sprouted
The hatred of race has bloomed
Bloomed, blood bloomed, death bloomed
Missiles, drones, tanks, submachine guns
These killing science and technologies Human invented 
Destroying the peace that Palestinians dream of

Mothers, died in the collapsed buildings
Children, bleeding in fear
Hospitals, bombed out crazily
Sadness, drifting on Earth
At this moment, Gaza is being ravaged by war
At this moment, I can only write my sadness and anger

Can Jesus' sacrifice save humanity?
Why does religion also lead to disputes and hatred?
The manipulation of politicians conceals 
the insidiousness of self-interest
The generals' achievements are stained 
with the blood of common people

I imagine to use my painful body eagerly
to resist a bullet for Gaza people
I want to use my sorrowful heart eagerly
to turn over this page of human suffering	

On Nov 8, 2023, at 4:18 am, on bed 

WILLIAM ZHOU, has studied and written poetry for over 30 years and published Chinese, English and translated works in literary newspapers and magazines both at home and abroad. He won the domestic literature award 4 times and the international literature award 3 times. He published 2 books of Chinese poetry and 2 books of Chinese English bilingual Poems. He was invited to attend the World Congress of Poets 9 times.

TAGHRID BOU MERHI

The Promised Land

In the cradle of sun
Palestine, the Promised Land stands.
A tapestry of ancient tales,
Where history weaves through hills, vales and trees.

Olive trees whisper secrets old,
Witness to stories of courage and heroism.
Jerusalem's ancient stones bear witness, 
To a promise that time can't dismiss.

In the dance of colors, East meets West,
A heritage resilient, above the Dome of the rock.
From Gaza's shores to Bethlehem's,
Palestine's promise, a beacon of light.

Amidst the echoes of prayers and cries,
Hope, like the phoenix, defiantly soars.
A land where dreams carve paths in stone,
Promised not just to one, but to all.

In the shadow of conflicts, yet resilient,
Palestine's heart beats, with hope.
Beyond borders, it's a dream's to the Promised Ones,
The Promised Land, an eternal grace.

The Brave Palestinians

Since '48, in the Palestinian earth,
Stalwart hearts face trials with ease.
Against the odds, their spirit prevails,
A tale of courage, where hope never fails and is inexhaustible.

From olive groves to Gaza's shore,
Brave Palestinians endure hardships and harm.
A legacy written in struggle's ink and steadfastness,
For freedom and dignity.

In the shadow of occupation's might,
They rise each dawn, like the sun.
A prolonged fight, they bear it,
For a homeland's embrace, in day and night.

1948 to the present's embrace,
A saga of valor, a saga of tournament.
In the face of adversity, they stand tall,
They do not fear death, they are steadfast and steadfast.

Occupied skies witness their plea,
For a land where all souls roam free.
In the verses of their unwavering 
Palestinians endure, courageous and strong.

Palestine, A Land Baptized In Martyrdom

In the crimson hues of Palestine's earth,
A land baptized in struggle and martyrdom.
Blood-soaked soil tells tales untold,
Of innocence lost, of stories tragedies and death.

The sky above, a canvas of sorrow,
Fragrant with souls of innocent martyrs.
Children, youth and women,
Whose spirits linger, testament to truth.

Amidst the horrors, tragedies unfold,
Yet, a resilient spirit, uncontrolled.
Courageous hearts beat, undeterred,
In the face of destruction, and global silence.

A people who dances with death, unafraid,
Believing in victory, because it is God's promise.
In the echoes of pain, voices rise,
A symphony of strength, where hope comprises.

Through the rubble, emerges their might,
Palestine's people, the steadfast people.
In the face of despair, they firmly stand,
A testament that victory is drawn from the land.

TAGHRID BOU MERHI: She is a Lebanese poetess, writer, journalist and translator living in Brazil. She is advisor to the International Union of Arab Intellectuals, in the Media Authority for Translation Affairs and advisor to the countries Al-Sham literary platform for literary translation. She is an advisory member among ten international poetry consultants chosen byChinese media giant CCTV. She is ambassador of Lebanon in the Fellowship of Creativity and International Science Humanities, England-London. She is ambassador of the team “International Cultural Salon Association “and ambassador of Brazil in the American P.L.O.T.S. Magazin and ambassador of Lebanon in the Association of the World Union of Writers and Artists UMEA Portugal. Member of prestigious platform Of WWWU World Nations Writers’ Union Kazakhstan. Editor of Al-Arabe Today, Rainbow, Literária Agharid, Al-Nil Walfurat, Literária and Allaylak Magazine.Fluent in Arabic (native language), French, English, Portuguese, Italian and Spanish She won the Nizar Sartawi International Translator Award for Creativity 2021 in the field of translation and literature. She has received the 2023 Naji Noman Literary Award. She has received the “ZHENG NIAN CUP 2023” First Prize. She hon received the 2nd Annual Zhengxin International Poet Award 2022 and 2023. Her poems have been published in numerous international anthologies،various Literary magazines, journals and websites. Her poems have been translated into more than 48 languages. She translated 22 books. Author of 17 books.

SOFIA SKLEIDA

Omen

We became simple frames of time
when the endless hours were stabbing us
and the cold sunsets pierced our bodies.
Now we look like immovable ornaments
in our prominent places
that share liquid dust.
You refuse the rain
it also dried up.
You say you can't stand the wind
the nature that fights you
the world that competes with your glory
your selfishness.
Surpassed you, betrayed you…

Truly Risen

These hours hurt me,
these moments.
The patient is defenseless in the chamber.
You struggle to give him discharge without diagnosis, cure
and destination.
Christ is Risen!

Ode

Our dreams have been shattered.
They could not stand to suffer on a lonely canvas.
They crossed the land border
to paint the youth of the world
with indelible intellectual touches
The borders inaccessible, unattended.
The common zone in protest.
The single market grinning in our demands.

SOFIA SKLEIDA was born in Athens. She studied Philology at the National and Kapodistrian University of Athens where she obtained her BA, MA in Pedagogy, Ph.D in Comparative Pedagogy and a postdoctoral research certificate . She obtained a certification in the Braille language. Today she works as a teacher in the secondary education. She took part in conferences and published articles in the Greek and international scientific journals, in conference papers and chapters books. She was awarded for her participation in poetry and literary contests in Greece and abroad. Her poems have been translated into Italian, English, Spanish, Albanian, Romanian and Bangla, her first poetic collection entitled Dream of Oasis (Thessaloniki, 2014), was translated and published in Italy in 2017 (won the second prize in an international competition in Milan). Her first Fairy tale entitled Geometrini was published in 2016, her second with the title The Kingdom of Joy in 2018. Some of her published works are the following : Neologisms, Melismos , Ιn the Mediterranean, Poetic Reflections, Cappadocian theological references in handwritten verses, The teaching of classical languages in the Italian secondary education ,Poetic visions in Paintings, Didactic Trilogy: Body-Spirit-Soul, Educational Proposals,  Cor ad Cor Loquitur , A Second Life , Α trip to the country of “the meeting” , Let there be light, Sentidos Spirituales, A rustle of silence,Lyrical verses of paintings. She is Vice President of the Zakynthian Cultural Institute, Member of the judging committee for new members of the Association of Greek Writers,a regular member at the Panhellenic Union of Writers and at the Association of Greek Writers.

SNIGDHA AGRAWAL

Over A Piece Of Land

Another dawn
and the infamous ones
displace our thoughts
displace our homes
kicking us out
from the land we owned
We are all refugees
in this place
constantly redrawing
borders
being squeezed
milked
siphoned
and the scriptwriters
justify the changes
like shifting dunes
in deserts
who will empathize?
who will find a solution?
"biggies", "smallish"
or divine intervention
©Snigdha Agrawal
18th November 2023

Cries

A father's wail
is heard over
the mayhem
cradling his
only child
dead
Have you heard
the screams
of a pre-pubescent child
being raped?
her unformed womb
trampled
bleeding to death
Hunger, thirst, disease
killing innocents
And all for a piece
of land
neither here nor there
Does anyone care?
©Snigdha Agrawal
18th November 2023


Is The Glass Half Empty Or Half Full?

So,
the war goes on
So,
the atrocities carry on
with the constant feed
from power banks
fully charged
So
what, if the motives are wrong
So
what, if arm twisting is applied
to pressure others to join
promoting the wrong cause
And so,
like a glass, half full, half empty
riddles the mind
Complex
Irrational
but cannot be ignored
as human lives continue
to fall
Snigdha Agrawal
18th November 2023

SNIGDHA AGRAWAL (nee Banerjee) has an MBA in Marketing and Corporate work experience of over two decades. She enjoys writing all genres of poetry, prose, short stories, and travel diaries. Brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, and educated in Convent School/College run by Irish Nuns, she has imbibed the best from Eastern and Western cultures. She has published four books of poems and short stories.  The latest titled TRAIL MIX is a book of short stories, published in 2023 by Authorspress Publishing House and is available on Amazon. in.  This apart, she is widely published in domestic and international anthologies and poetry journals.  A septuagenarian, her passion for writing and travelling continues unabated.

SIAMIR MARULAFAU

Crying Land

The land we settled looks like hell
Where are the eyes of the world
Meanwhile the nuclear bombs are dropped on head
How cruel you are to seize our land

It is a promise land by a prophet
Why should you damage by nuclear bombs
All useful creatures are spoilt
Where do you put your heart on?

How cruel you are to do the ghost things
Israels have no heart to image
What a dangerous life we suffer from
With no help, with no help

Our world seems no bright
It looks like a dark cave all days and nights
None of buildings is sanding strongly
The street lights are not scattering 

How cruel you are to seize our land
With no kindness, no heart to remind
We are human beings with the same with
What mistakes and wrong deeds done
November 02, 2023. Copyright 

Palestine Is Now In Blood

Palestine is now in blood
No eyes of the world be a help
Where are you all
We are here for crying

Palestine is now in blood
Our tears look like blood
With no tears to drop out
What should be done except crying

Palestine is now in blood
Our life has no meaning to run
Meanwhile the nuclear bombs damage
No hope for life

Palestine is now in blood
The land seems to dry
The water is drying
Life becomes chaotic

Palestine is now in blood
No voice can be heard
Children are in vanishing
All are in danger with no help
November 02, 2023. Copyright

Life In War

The world seems like a dark cave
With no lighting 
Where are you all
Our life is in danger
The birds on the trees can’t sing
Since the sun is not enlighten 
What is the wrong deed made
No humanity be found in the lives
All are feeling disappointed 

Life seems has no meaning
With full of misery
We are longing for the help
But what to do 
All are in vanishing 
Our heart has been injured
No drugs be cured 
Only crying for days and nights
Where is the humanity amongst
We are in danger
Where are you now?

Can you listen our voice?
We need a help to secure
Since our land is in  hot guns
The life seems like the hell
To whom we are speaking
No voice that be accessed 
Since not all crying for the pain
Keep humanity on the suffering
The lives would in safety
November 02, 2023.Copyright

Life In Worrier

The only things I worry about is life
Since has no meaning and depending on
Caused by the greediest amongst
How can Palestinians run the lives
With having no hope in the next days

What should you seize from
Al Aqsa Mosque is in danger
What is the wrong deed 
To whom the Al aqsa mosque belong?
The land has no sin

Keep away from 
Which is not yours but for theirs
It claims not to be yours
Why should it be damaged
It uses to smile for the right

Keep away from
Don’t let the blue sky be in anger
And the sea gets angry
The world identifies 
Don’t let the creatures be in vanishing
God knows everything 
Let the lives be in harmony
November 03, 2023. Copyright

SIAMIR MARULAFAU: (Indonesia) He is a bilingual poet, writer and author who writes in English and Indonesian language. He has published 9 books. He is an active member of various poetry groups on Facebook and participates in many poetry contests. His writings are part of several national and international magazines, newspapers, journals and anthologies. He has won many awards for his poetry. Currently, he works as Associate Professor at the Faculty of Vocational, University of Sumatra Utara, Medan-Indonesia.

SHAHNAZ SHAHIN

Bloody Poem

Night, dead silence, darkness
Weather is very good, city is noiseless.
Fire from the rifle
draws a circle of flame
in the middle of the night.
Gunfire cut the silence
the dream of freedom ...
Morning of this night
Will open with the death.
Interesting is that,
Where is the Almighty
of this Earth?
Catching fire from the rocket,
your prosperous land is falling apart,
From a big huge building
only hills have left on the ground.
Blood on the lips of the night
And .... and you're nowhere.
Tomorrow your parents would be go to work.
you would be going to school...
But your bag is damaged on the ground
bullet holes in books...
your things are sprawled on the land ...
I also washed my face with this poem in blood
and I buried hundreds of people without graves
Please don't pass by my poem
read and then sleep...

War Is Like A Hungry Wolf

War is like a hungry wolf
sharp teeth, long claws,
it has the greedy appetite and greedy soul.
Its eyes full of with blood and invaded the world
Everywhere death .... everywhere tears.
Pieces of human bodies ...
from the gun blast are laid on the ground.
Staring this scene... everyone’s eye is widened.
What's your fault, baby, your dreams are broken,
your sweet dreams are disappearing ...
On dead mother's bloody chest
baby looks for milk with his lips.
Glasses of old man got dirty,
underfoot with weak eyesight.
The life of trees was also disrupted,
happiness rose into the air... like the black fume.
Birds, worms, ants, insects,
insects underground...
no one can find a place for hiding.
Empty bird nests were also caught in the bullet.
There is nothing visible ...
around except bullets, groans and pain.
Hundreds of people 
took tin instead drop of water,
 dark-red blood flows everywhere.
Soldiers run here and there,
someone pulls the gun from his shoulder,
that's enough, you're tired too, he says
go home, your mother is waiting for you...
And flag in one hand, bread in another...
two schoolchildren want to have only the peace.

World Would Reach To Everyone

Wheel of fortune turned in the world,
Oppression, obstinacy and death …
appears from all sides.
Many battle-fields on the map, and destroyed dwellings
And Palestine is ... one of them
There is corner for everyone in the world...
which was given by Almighty.
Everyone is able to earn, live, eat and drink,
and would find warm corner for the living.
But
the world, that has been divided so many times.
They think to destroy again and again
They don't interest about war...
they have no heartache; their houses aren't destroyed...
People,
Let's get together, don't let the world fall apart
Black, yellow, white skin people,
I call you all, I think about you all ...
I think about mothers, I think about children...
And adults ...
they can sit at the shade of the tree,
chatting, drinking tea and
sharing good memories
from their life...
Youngs love...
gets married... builds a new family,
and the blue sky would become to the roof
over everyone's head...

Translated Into English : Mesme Aliyulla Qizi Ismayilova

SHAHNAZ SHAHIN (Shahnaz Feyzulla kizi Babayeva) Poet-publicist Shahnaz Shahin (Shahnaz Feyzulla kizi  Babayeva) was born in 1956 in Azerbaijan Sabirabad  region . She is member of the Writes and Journalists Unions of Azerbaijan. She has been awarded to the President’s Prize in 2019, and in 2018 to the International Prize of Rasul Rza. She published many poems, stories on Azerbaijani Press from 1996. Her many poems had been translated into foreign languages, and took place on different websites and magazines. She is also the author of many books. These books were published in Turkey, Kyrgyzstan, the South Azerbaijan. It was composed many songs to her poems. Married, has 3 children.

SHADAN ALI AHMAD

I Will Die In My Country 

It's been everything ever since
I will die in my country
I'm just going to take the spirit of this
I will be a martyr
It's been everything ever since
I dream of being a martyr Oh Palestine

Stay Here

I'm from Gaza، the city
My people are here despite death
The intensity of the blockade is patience and resistance
The enemy is watering
Full of shame and failure
At least not... Lavedin
We are here to keep the promise
You are the enemy of light and life
It's about my freedom، no. No، I don't agree
I will defend you
I swear I'll clean my children's blood
Despite the persecution and destruction of thousands
A ton of hate planes
I'll stay high and free
Like poplars and lemon trees
Olives، ears
I have millions of free people and i have free people
Your fear will not scare me، nor will you kill me
You are an invading child
And Sheila protects you without weapons and women
Protect me from the fire
Beware of the mosques
The predictions you're anticipating
One day after the law
My bird is strong
under the dust
High flying in the sky
Give peace and peace to the world
My people are proud of it
Your patience and strength
My enemies

Gaza Is A Proud Land

A flower in a bloody sea
against injustice
He dared to be an enemy
He entered the house
She doesn't know it's for him
A cemetery for all those who abused it
And he dared and broke and attacked
Killing، destroying and breaking
With the excuse of returning the strike
He knows that he's the first
The decision-makers
Every inch decided to have a king
Now he's focused on that
the destruction of all or
Force them to leave
It's not known what happened in Gaza
It's a land of man and pride
She doesn't know what her mother is
With spirit and blood
Never give up
Don't be afraid of our guns
We will do those actions and we will not leave them

SHADAN ALI AHMED: Peace Ambassador Dr. Shadan Ali Ahmed was born in Sulaymaniyah in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq. Since 2005 She has worked in several local and international book fairs in the Public Library Directorate of the Ministry of Culture as a member and supervisor until 2023. She has two books published under the name of Your Heart or Homeland in 2015، Ziwa Book in 2022.She is a member of the Secretariat of the Ambassador of the World Peace and the Children’s And The United Nations Human Rights Membership as well as the Head of State (House of Women) from the United Nations Iraq. She is also a member of the International Journal of Art and Design (IJRAD). She has been awarded the best annual awards in the United States Europe Asia and The Arab World.

SANTOSH BAKAYA

Dogs Of War

The boy in torn shorts and bathroom slippers 
runs helter- skelter on shards and shrapnel. 
Panic -stricken. It is a scorching day. 
In a dented bathtub, a father bathes his kids-
a daughter and son. 

Time and again an old woman looks here and there,
burrows creased.
Her eyes desperately searching – searching – searching. 
“There, there I just heard him.” 
She mumbles, ears pricked, eyes keen. 
Wiping beads of perspiration from her forehead. 
“Granny, don’t you remember, our dog is dead.”
“I just heard him.” She insists, almost stumbling on arthritic legs, 
begging – beseeching- pleading their dog to come back.
 “But I hear him barking.” 
She says pouring milk in his bowl.
 
“It is not a dog barking …just another rocket attack.” 
Her young son consoles her. 

Meanwhile, the dogs of war continue barking – relentlessly.

The Smiling Old Man 

There are petrified people fleeing. 
An old man suffering from dementia smiles beatifically,
as his grandson pulls him out of the refugee camp. 
The old man smiles and smiles, like an innocent child, 
looking at the billowing smoke, while people choke and cough.
“I want a chocolate, can I get one?”  
He beseeches, looking blankly at the rubble,
under which many of his kith are trapped. 
“Run granddad, run. Run faster”, pleads the child.
“I want a chocolate”, he insists. 
The child bursts into helpless tears.
The grandfather smiles the most innocent smile.  
 
A Crisis of Humanity 

The mother holding her son, 
the father his daughter, 
a tear- streaked child clinging to his grandmother,
bawling his guts out. 
Running- racing – dashing helter- skelter.  


Mothers with kids in their arms, wailing, shrieking. 
Gaza’s olive farmers moan, 
“Our hearts burn. The war has destroyed the harvest.”  
“My father is missing!” laments a fourteen year old.
“I want Mama and Baba,” cries another. 
While a grandmother wheels her grandson in the hallway 
of the operating department in a hospital, stuck in a limbo. 
No idea where to go. No idea where to go!  

SANTOSH BAKAYA: Winner of International Reuel Award for literature for Oh Hark, 2014, The Universal Inspirational Poet Award [Pentasi B Friendship Poetry and Ghana Government, 2016,] Bharat Nirman Award for literary Excellence, 2017, Setu Award, 2018, [Pittsburgh, USA] for ‘stellar contribution to world literature.’ Keshav Malik Award, 2019, for ‘staggeringly prolific and quality conscious oeuvre’.Chankaya Award  [Best Poet of the Year, 2022, Public Relations Council of India,], Eunice Dsouza Award 2023, for ‘rich and diverse contribution to poetry, literature and learning’,[Instituted  by WE Literary Community]  poet, biographer, novelist, essayist, TEDx speaker, creative writing mentor, Santosh Bakaya, Ph.D has been acclaimed for her poetic biography of Mahatma Gandhi, Ballad of Bapu [Vitasta, 2015], her poems have been translated into many languages, and short stories have won many awards, both national and international. She writes a popular weekly column, Morning Meanderings in Learning and Creativity. Com. Her twenty- three books cover different genres; her latest being, What is the Metre of The Dictionary?

NITA B GEORGE

Born On The Battlefield 

Nobody 
Knew this strip of land,
Gaza,
So, bubbling with life 
Was
The womb of Death. 
Nine months ago 
Mother 
When you held
The hand of father 
And
Conceived me
Did you know
You would deliver me
Death 
On the battlefield?
Oh!
How did the people 
Of
God
Forget 
What it was
To be killed in millions 
To be ghettoized 
And 
Exterminated...
In the theatres,
Moving trucks,
Fed
With deadly gas...
A tooth for a tooth, 
An eye for an eye
Only,
I did not persecute them, then why, I ?
Barbaric savagery prevails 
And
The Holocaust, 
Dead and ghostly 
Has risen again 
To
Devour Humanity 
I
Who was conceived 
In love
Receive that
That was not for me
Death!

Words, Words And Words

When
Will this flow of words
Stop?
Empty, meaningless words
That
Like a river in spate
Flow
To the ocean
Called Death.
World leaders today 
The parliament of owls
Confer, tell,
The war must stop
The hospitals spared
The sustenance reaches
The wounded, dying Humanity 
Impotent
Peace bodies
Appeal
But
Who is to listen?
Ears have gone deaf
Only
Tongues wag...
Arms, ammunition,
In plenty we have
Say the powerful 
Take, use
And
See their efficacy 
Let
Pregnant women 
With anxious fetuses 
Groan
Mankind like mushroom 
Grows.
Let the sickle sweep
Poet!
What say you?
Words, words and words
You too
Like world leaders 
Utter
Words, meaningless words
While
God sleeps in His Heaven
Guns bark
And the battlefield 
With its Dead, smiles!
 

Oh! Palestine, Palestine...

You cry, you weep, you die
But
The Chosen
Repent not
Dead hearts beat in their chests
You, an island
Surrounded by
Swirling, angry waves
Fight for your existence 
You cry, you weep, you die
And
I, with you !

Gaza

I
Wandered
Into the garden of Eden
God's own land
And
Found desolation, death
Weeping 
And
Beating of chests...
Men
Carrying 
Little bundles of joy,
In shrouds
Women
Bleeding, dying
New borns
Nay, 
New dead
Lying all around 
Was it a nightmare 
A dreadful dream
For
Down
Here on Earth 
On 
Gaza
A scene so similar is seen...

NITA B GEORGE is a poet and a short story writer having to her credit five published books, three anthologies of poems, a collection of short stories and her Memoir. An English teacher at the Graduation level, her interaction with young minds has given her a deep insight into human thought and human behavior. An animal lover, much of her time is passed with her pets.

NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH

The Pain Of War

1

Horrified, brutal, and intense
The war came like a hurricane
Erasing all things in a moment
Burning dreams of every human

2

The panic covered all over sky corners
Having no house, even no life as ever
Young hearts are becoming withered
Ruined as die not yet buried former

3

Blood fell bodies smelling of gunpowder
Souls vanished, weren’t peaceful as ever
War took out the whole living joy
Made warm families being spoiled

4

War results always haunted in reality
Funeral towels, poverty, and disability
When time passed by, people suffered
History saved the names of the killers

5

Wanting hegemony for their domination
Commanding to ruin, kill as their action
In brutal mind, they invaded all the land
Deprived all resources of people inland

6

Stop! Stop now the ambition of your life
Freedom, democracy, earning living rights
Strong, rich nations disputed weak nations
Where was the world peace consolidation?

7

Be awake right away the leaders
No for your own benefit as ever
No heartless heart to harm all mankind indeed
Someday at court, you’ll be sentenced to death
*HNC@All Rights Reserved

Let's Live In Peace

1

Let pigeons soar white wing as ever
Just take the olive goes everywhere
Just as calling to unite with fellows
Hope faith always shines you know

2

Calling everyone for happiness forever
Are the five continents still rich or poor?
Just stop fighting with hatred now truly
Just global solidarity to reduce poverty

3

Let pigeons soar white wing as ever
Freedom to fly across the sky bluer
Whether male or female is still wished 
Building a beautiful and green planet

4

The green and clean world is more progressive
Different skin colors still enjoy well progressive
Care and help with warmth from progressive
Maintain peace for the world through active

5

Just keeping the peace is a top priority
Just we go to unite together at priority
Go to the place of your dreams forever
Please, keep the planet green forever
*HNC@All Rights Reserved

The Call Of Peace From Love

Peace is like the bright sunshine
As the source of peaceful beings in life
Like virtue, everybody is desiring
To perform the truth of believing

Using grace to bury hatred emotions
To turn wickedness into compassion
First and foremost, peace is sympathy indeed
Then giving up a grudge, eradicating greed

Due to poverty, mercy is a righteous way of Lord
We should have fair behavior to end the war
All nations have the same responsibility
To help all people have a good living, you see

For that the result, they must understand to handle
The true, the good, and the beautiful as examples
They must admire, adore God, and love human
If they were selfish, they’d make chaos homeland

We should agree that the world is a big family
Though we are not the same race and country
But have the same mentality of asking happiness
We should be united to create peace – endless
HNC@All Rights Reserved

NGUYEN CHAU NGOC DOAN CHINH. Her pen name is HONG NGOC CHAU. She is a Master of Educational Management, a member of the Ho Chi Minh City Writers Association. (Vietnam) and an Honorary Doctorate in Literature and Humanities from the Church and the University of Prixton.