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. 

JYOTIRMAYA THAKUR

Collective Sorrow

Dawn breaks on the heads of innocence
Life ends cut down to size unaware
Children run on little feet to hide 
Everyone looks with despair towards the sky 
The whole world has shut their eyes 
As ceilings tumble and stones waterfalls
Bodies cramped under rubbles buried
The last image of children alone growing old 
Drowning in the time allotted for truce
Love went blind—slowly soaked all up 
From behind a veil, and we couldn’t see it
A deaf air shouted that borders believe 
Space is smaller than the world drawn by poets
Love failed to find it's eyes 
As we lose our hearts uncertain of life's worth
Holding war's hand walking to death
As the houses run and run for shelter
Gobbling the terror in kids' mouth
Leaving its stones behind body parts- fragments in memory
And the angry universe will collect all sorrows 
In a corner of broken lives to ask us all
Without official title who committed suicide?
@Jyotirmaya Thakur -copyright.

Freedom Calls

Time has witnessed the struggles of Palestine
Sands of time, shifting, flowing in every grain 
Dunes rising and falling in a memory’s trace
Of a land, a people, a sacred space
Heartbeat of Jerusalem holds a special place.

In Ramallah’s streets, bustling and alive,
A city with its unique history with modernity,
Dreams of freedom continue to thrive,
In every gaze, every child’s play,
Is the wish for a liberated day.

Bethlehem’s star, shines so bright,
Church bells ring, minarets rise,
Guiding paths, through the night,
With inhabitants of their vision clear,
Heralds a freedom that’s drawing near.

Olive trees of this ancient land in silence speak,
Whispering tales of love, of hope, of the peaks,
In every leaf, a story unfolds of brave souls,
For in their shade, a nation dreams,
A free Palestine, where the heart deems.

For with each flight, each bird’s song,
Lies a hope, for freedom lifelong,
A song weaves through the ancient stone,
A melody amidst turmoil beautifully known,
Resonates the echo of freedom’s call.
@Jyotirmaya Thakur-copyright.

A Tribute To Resilience

The spirit of resistance runs steep, 
Refuses to be silenced, continues to beep,
In alleys and streets, the voices rise,
Echoes of resistance, touching the skies.

From every corner, young and old,
Stones against might bravely hold,
From dawn to dusk, they remain firm,
With every chant, their spirits affirm.

In the heart of conflict, love remains,
Through the struggles, through the pains,
For in each echo, hope persists,
In the land where resistance exists.

From the mountains high to valleys deep,
Echoes a cry, making hearts weep,
For every tear that might descend,
The tune assures the pain will end.

Minarets and domes, in harmony stand,
Guarding the stories of this grand land,
For in their embrace, histories align,
Preserving the essence of Palestine.

Children dream, elders reminisce,
Of peaceful days, of pure bliss,
On the horizon, a future clear anew,
Where chains break and skies appear true.
@Jyotirmaya Thakur-copyright.

JYOTIRMAYA THAKUR born in India, is a retired Principal of Cambridge affiliated school, bilingual author of around fifty books in many genres with many waiting to be published, translated into over 43 languages and is a co-author in many International Anthologies. Her poems, stories, articles and research papers have been widely published and translated in many languages in highly acclaimed journals and reputed magazines. Jyotirmaya Thakur is an illustrious author and poet, Peace Ambassador and a veteran academic. A voice to adhere to in our tumultuous times. Her academic experience and intellect combine to make her books a very useful companion to anyone seeking a path in a maze of confusion. Jyotirmaya earned a Bachelor’s Degree and Master’s Degree in English language and literature from Indian University and London University. She also has earned Grandmaster Degree in Reiki Healing and Karuna Reiki as well as HFDE Healing Degree.  She is a Hindi translator for the Ithaca Magazine of Spain circulated globally.  She is a Multi-Genre Award Winner, Reviewer, Columnist, Editor, Motivational Speaker, Philanthropist, Environmental, Social and Cultural activist. She serves on various prestigious Committees as Ambassador and Adviser for literary and humanitarian organisations. Brand Ambassador for National and International magazines.

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.

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.

ADNAN AL-RIKANI

You Are The Losers

They say her dowry is obedience
O wounded by the fire of alienation
Don't chase after empty invitation bubbles...
The veil fell from Antara's face
Al-Shayboub raises the elite of submission
In the name of peace...
O Gaza, open your doors
Here our powerful armies have come to sleep
O wounded Gaza, open your doors
Here our dreams have come, to be hung with the scent of smoke
The promise did not come on horseback
There is no lightning in his justice, what we used to call Al-Hussam
Oh, wounded by the fire of exile...
That red sultan
He blows an ostrich feather and chatters among the crowd
And they desire the books of the Torah
Taken from the eyes of children
Watering the sanctuary
And the ink of dusk
And the revelation of heaven
And angel’s cry
Before the throne they are witnesses
Woe to those who pray, said the Lord
He knows the unseen and you are the losers.!!
And you are the losers...!!


The Sky Is Crying
      
The sky is crying blood
If it falls from the eyes of children
Gaza tears
What a stupid rubbish
She was buried in it
Verses of beauty, birds of paradise
Lift up
Her eyes are sad though
She laughed
There is light from the Most Gracious
Yeshua
Martyrs and they took an oath
Since childhood
Their concerns are for other than God
And you will not kneel.
They are lemon blossom and olive seedlings
In the land you plant

Silence Of Palestine

Your silence... scares me
Don't you see...
Your silence scares me...
But he will not be defeated at will...
If home calls me
I answer... Here you are
I have an ax in my hand...a pickaxe and a shovel
Book and pen
A white shroud on my shoulders, show the martyrdom...
To my land...I water it
With my sweat... with my blood...
I blame its soil...
I purify myself with it for prayer
The love of the earth is a religion...worship...
My land...if I die
I will be born in it, birth after birth...
And if I live...
I will not be stingy with an increase in life...and an increase...
My breath illuminates the darkness
She crouched down on the rib... suffocating her
On the mountains...blasting them relentlessly
On history... I judged it to be false and repeated...
Maybe I break the silence... strange... suspicious
For him, life and annihilation are equal...


Children's Surgeons Are Calling

On the banks of groans
And the beaches of burning wounds,
A lyre that only opened its mouth to kill.
When I escaped, I rowed
Her soul is a widowed cloud...
Shaking hands with the harshness of her sterile silence,
The noise of children's desires
A revolution that opens the gates of heaven
To transform it into pink butterfly colors
As if it were the text of a poem and a wish
Angels calling...
Postpone taking our souls for a distant tomorrow
Our dreams are stacked behind
The sounds of missiles...!!

KATARZYNA DOMINIK

Holy Land

You who gave
words to the silent mouth,
a stigma for a skinny body,
so that you came forward
while standing at the door.
  
Please take hold of your numb hand
and kiss your forehead,
I would feel like that
when I was alive.
  
Today a medical office,
I entrust myself to You
I close my eyes.
disability,
who took away the dream,
leaving Palestine

Święta Ziemia

Ty, który dałeś 
niemym ustom słowa, 
chudemu ciału stygmat, 
dziękuję, że otworzyłeś, 
kiedy stałam u drzwi. 
  
Proszę, chwyć drętwą rękę 
i ucałuj czoło, 
bym się poczuła jak wtedy, 
gdy żyłam. 
  
Dziś błogosławię ból, 
zawierzam się Tobie 
i zamykam oczy. 
Niepełnosprawność, 
która sen zabiera, 
zostawiam Palestynie



In Autumn

Such Palestine
I haven't seen it in a long time
I don't remember when
the last leaf has fallen
to her sacred ground

Jesienią

Takiej Palestyny
nie widziałam dawno
nie pamiętam kiedy
opadł ostatni liść
na jej świętą ziemię

The Source Of Knowledge

Life blooms there and death lurks there
echoes the universe
and hides the secret of the soul

It is a kaleidoscope of events
a mirror of thoughts, words and deeds

It cannot be extinguished
it is not like being buried in ashes

It has the power to survive
it penetrates the truth through and through
and never allows himself to be oppressed

In the discoloring aurora
fills many suns with happiness
a heart looking for a place
whom no tear can defile


This is what Palestine is like

Źródło poznania

W niej kwitnie życie i śmierć się czai
odbija się echo wszechświata
i ukrywa tajemnica duszy

Jest kalejdoskopem wydarzeń
lustrem myśli słów i uczynków

Nie sposób ją zgasić
nie podobne zasypać w popiele

Ma moc przetrwania
przenika na wskroś prawdę
i nigdy nie pozwala się ciemiężyć

W przebarwiającej się zorzy
słońc wielu napełnia szczęściem
serce szukające miejsca
którego łza nie skala


Taka właśnie jest Palestyna

Where God Cries

Apart from segmentation,
out from the forefathers,
branded by the breath of civil war,
we are transparent
a continuation of the ancestors.
We are a thorn in the side of this earth.

We apply without hesitation,
as - and wherever possible,
vegetating among the weeds
acidifying fertile soil.

We - children not of our God,
The fate of the world is not in our hands.
We're alive, but it's like we've been dead for a long time.
Fear and violence are what they feed us with.

We abhor feigned bravery,
the courage to scream for euthanasia.
What we want is to experience the taste of freedom.

Living away from the truth,
from a true tomorrow,
we are looking for feelings that we have orphaned
crushing childhood dreams.

Boys, pawns, a black mass
Hell will consume them.
We – limited series,
we claim the right to the source of the tree's roots,
that bears healthy fruit.

We - children not of our God,
we count down the seconds in private
unsustainable time
Palestine.

Tam, gdzie Bóg płacze

Poza segmentacją,
na zewnątrz od praojców,
napiętnowani oddechem wojny domowej,
jesteśmy transparentnym 
ciągiem dalszym przodków.
Jesteśmy solą w oku tej ziemi.

Bez namysłu aplikujemy,
jak– i gdziekolwiek się da,
wegetując między chwastami
zakwaszającymi żyzną glebę.

My – dzieci nie naszego Boga,
nie w naszych rękach los świata.
Żyjemy, a jakby już dawno nie.
Strach przemoc tym nas karmią.

Brzydzimy się udawanym męstwem,
odwagą krzyczącą o eutanazję.
To czego chcemy, to poznać smak wolności.

Żyjąc w oddaleniu od prawdy,
od niezakłamanego jutra,
szukamy uczuć, które osierociliśmy
paląc na panewce dziecięce marzenia.

Chojraków, pionków, czarną masę
nich piekło pochłonie.
My – seria limitowana,
rościmy prawo do źródła korzeni drzewa,
które wydaje zdrowy owoc.

My – dzieci nie naszego Boga,
odliczamy sekundy na osobności 
niezrównoważonego czasu
Palestyny.

KATARZYNA DOMINIK: Born in 1982. Historian, graduate of doctoral studies, publicist, writer, poet. Laureate of literary, poetic and photographic competitions. A propagator and an ambassador of the DKMS Base of Stem Cell Donors Poland as well as an animator of local culture and a promoter of regional tradition. An activist of the Association of former Bone Marrow Transplantation Patients in Katowice, the Foundation “Lokujmy w Dobro” (Let’s invest in Good), the Association of Polish Authors O/Warszawa II (Warsaw) and the John Paul II Association of Polish Writers in Chicago, as well as a co-founder and a member of the Tilia Literary Association and a member of the “Rubikon” Literary Club. Publications in numerous poetry magazines. A historian by profession, but a writer by passion. An author of numerous scientific and historical publications and fifteen different author’s poetry volumes.

Urodzona w 1982 roku. Historyk, absolwentka studiów doktoranckich, publicystka, pisarka, poetka. Laureatka konkursów literackich, poetyckich oraz fotograficznych. Propagatorka i ambasadorka DKMS Bazy Dawców Komórek Macierzystych Polska oraz  animatorka lokalnej kultury i krzewicielka regionalnej tradycji. Działaczka Stowarzyszenia Pacjentów Po Przeszczepie Szpiku Kostnego w Katowicach, Fundacji Lokujmy w Dobro, Stowarzyszenie Autorów Polskich O/Warszawa II oraz Zrzeszenia Literatów Polskich im. Jana Pawła II w Chicago, a także współzałożycielka i członkini Stowarzyszenia Literackiego Tilia, członkini Klubu Literackiego „Rubikon”. Publikacje w licznych czasopismach poetyckich. Z zawodu historyk, ale z zamiłowania pisarka. Autorka licznych publikacji naukowych i historycznych oraz 15 tomików autorskich.

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.

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.

ALKHAIR AL JOHORE

Palestine Land Of Ancient History

1. 
Lies a people, bound by their ancestry,
Amidst a world of chaos and strife
They hold onto their hope for a better life.

2. 
In Palestine, love and pain are intertwined
As families grieve for their lost ones, resigned
To a life of struggle and sacrifice
But still they rise, their spirits never die.

3. 
Their poetry speaks of a resilience
That endures despite years of silence,
A hope for peace, a longing for home
In Palestine, where the heart never roams.

Wake Up Palestine

 From your slumber deep,
Shake off the chains that bind you and weep,
For your land that once was free,
Now lies in ruins for all to see.
    The sun rises over hills once green,
Now scarred by the marks of war obscene,
And the cries of children fill the air,
For the world is deaf to their despair.
    Wake up Palestine, and raise your voice,
For justice and peace must be our choice,
And let the world hear our call,
For freedom and dignity for us all.
    The olive groves and ancient stones,
Bear witness to our pain and moans,
But we will not give up the fight,
For a better future in our sight.
    Wake up Palestine, and unite as one,
For our struggle has only just begun,
And with steadfastness and determination,
We will overcome this occupation.
    So rise up, oh land of the prophets,
And show the world your strength and grit,
For the day will come when we will see,
A free Palestine shining bright and free.

The Universe Waves Of Love

A cosmic dance that never stops,
A rhythm that pulses through the stars,
And echoes through the endless drops.

The love that flows through everything,
Is like an ocean to the soul,
A force that never fades or dies,
A current that makes us whole.

The stars above are shining bright,
And each one sings a love song,
An infinite chorus of joy and light,
That guides us our whole life long.

The universe waves of love,
Are felt by every living thing,
A symphony that never ends,
A celebration that we all can sing.

ALKHAIR AL JOHORE: An Accounting graduate from Universiity Technology MARA (Uitm), Shah Alam experienced in the field of administration & banking. Have served with UDA, MARA & BANK ISLAM. Has published 4 solo books 1. DEMI CINTA (FOR LOVE) – August 21.  2. DIALEKTIKA UMAT MELAYU (DIALECTIC OF THE MALAY PEOPLE) – Nov.21.  3. METAMORFOSIS SEORANG INSAN  (METAMORPHOSIS OF A MAN) – August 23.  4. TERBANG ALAH BURUNG TERBANG (FLY IS FLYING BIRDS) – Nov.23. Joining the Asean Poetry Anthology Prayer for the Nation Sender; Prof. Dr. Bahrullah Akbar, MBA and many books of Poetry Anthologies, approximately 16 books and with the Johor Writers Association PPJ and others.

KUJTIM HAJDARI

We Resemble Each Other, Dear Moon 

Bloody corpses of frozen children,
Mothers' cries drowning in pain and tears,
Soulless monsters with frozen minds,
Neither the world nor the pain can stop them.

Don't look at me, dear moon, as if I'm insane,
This time makes me resemble the mad ones,
These things happening in this sick world,
Continue to torment life, endlessly.

Again tonight, in the news, war, murder, and crimes,
I felt emptiness in my chest, and my spirit froze,
I stepped outside as I felt suffocated in my room,
And I reached out for a hand to warm me from the sky.

And the light, from the high stars, that came warm,
It seemed to cry endlessly with tears,
And in my ears it sounded: "Rest in peace"
Every victim's soul in the immortal world.

The whole world around me tightens,
And the voices of pain lead me to abysses,
Under the heavy shadow of committed crimes,
Where children, races, and tribes suffer and die.

Don't look at me, dear moon, so distorted,
There are days when I too am faded like you,
When pain mercilessly crushes our hearts,
Yellowed and hardened, we resemble each other.
Kujtim Hajdari

Stop The War!

And the entire sky and earth,
Ignited by the planes of death,
More crimes and deaths,
From the hot heads of the vultures. 

Look at the child, you criminals,
Listen to the screams they utter,
Is there any blood left in your veins?
Brutes, fighting against the wretched.

Oh bloodthirsty ones, oh feeble minds,
This angel you follow with fire,
With flames and killer bullets,
Will chase you until the grav.

There is only one thing left in this world,
And everyone in the world is after it,
And you, and I, who remain silent today,
When shamelessly and soullessly they attack.

Stop the war, you monsters!
Cursed world that closes its eyes,
Thousands of children left like corpses,
Will this madness swallow and suffocate them?
Kujtim Hajdari

Keep Quiet, My Son Is Sleeping.
(Scene from the Israel-Palestine war)

She screamed, pulled her hair, and tore her shawl,
Then left the road and rushed inside with a sprint:
"Hush...! My son is sleeping, keep quiet!"
The coldness of death, she touched with blood lips.

"They are all asleep!" she counted with her eyes,
Lifeless angelic bodies, with wounds and blue stains,
She didn't saw the tears when they followed her there,
"He will wake up, I will wait for him, I will stay here"

She sat down, caressed and kissed the cold body,
Covered the wounds with pieces of the shawl,
No more tears shed, no more tears left,
Just silently caressed under the shadow of mourning.

She lost everyone, now she had her only child,
Wherever she went, protect him like a treasure,
But the vultures found the little one's trace,
They left the mother alone with living pain.
Kujtim Hajdari

KUJTIM HAJDARI was born in Hajdaraj on April 10, 1956 in the city of Lushnja in Albania. He completed his university studies in Albanian language and literature in Albania. He worked as a literature teacher in high school. He has been in exile in Italy for years and since 2010 he has also become an Italian citizen. Now live in USA. He has written many volumes of poetry in Albanian and the last in Italian and English. He has participated in many international competitions where he has had several appreciations and awards as: The CUP of the special prize of the “GOLDEN PAGES OF ITALIAN POETRY” 2018. FIRST PRIZE for the diaspora of the Poetry Festival in Albania, 2019. The CUP of prize of the magazine “World poets and their poetry” in Romania, 2020. FINALIST in 7 places in “Europian Poetry Championship” 2020. He was awarded the title ARTISTIC HONOR OF THE DIASPORA in 2021, by “Jehona Shqiptare” for his contribution to the National Poetry Festival in Albania, edition 4, as the Deputy Chairman of the Festival. He is elected member of the evaluation committee of poets participating in the national poetry festival to be held in 2023, organised by “Jehona Shqiptare” in Albania. Up to now, with his poems he is part of 58 national and international anthologies. His poems have been published in many newspapers in his country and abroad.

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.

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.

ALSHAAD KARA

Free Me

Behind the pain that vehicles
Everything everywhere
Are the real suffering 
That is deemed insufficient 
For this world. 

The unfairness is the 
Apocalyptic truth
That is hidden. 

There is no deadliest 
Situation that being
Cornered and killed. 

It is a slaughtered 
Bombarded land
Called Palestine.

Silent Genocide

Never say a word,
Spread the silence
Whilst human rights 
Are being violated
Since decades
In Palestine. 

Let's move on,
Let the situation 
Continue. 

The silence in itself 
Is a crime
Because not
Speaking for what is
Wrong
Is a crime in itself. 

 
Hypocrisy Of The Eyes

Rename Palestine
As Israel, 

Then slowly 
Neglects the ones
Who were first. 

Continue this process
Since those people 
Are not considered
To be human. 

Then support the
Oppressor and
Reprimand the
Survivor. 

Eyes have turned
Blind even
With no blindfold. 

This is the reality 
Of the world today.

ALSHAAD KARA is a Mauritian poet who writes from his heart. He won the 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup” Literary Award Third Prize. His latest poems were published in “The BeZine”, “Spered Gouez”, “Men Matters Online Journal” and “Slamming Bricks Anthology 3rd Edition”.

LINDA M. CRATE

If I Could, I Would 

how can you say
"never again"
then turn a blind eye to the
genocide happening
in Palestine,

how can you hear the
screams of innocent people
and think they somehow
did anything to deserve this?

how is a ceasefire not the
obvious option in this terrible atrocity
against mankind?

or is man truly unkind?

i cannot believe that the collective
of humanity is cruel and yet so many
are willing to let these people die
that my faith in humanity wavers,

but i try to wear ribbons of hope on 
my heart and let them bloom in the 
flower gardens of my heart,
and watch it glisten on the wings of
my birds praying that hope will be enough;

i hope that one day children can
laugh again in palestine,
that families aren't torn apart;
and they can truly be free—

no one deserves what they're enduring,
and it breaks my heart that i have no power
to stop it because if i could, i would.
-linda m. crate 

No Need For Genocide 

when have enough
people died?
when is enough finally
enough?

ceasefire, yesterday, today,
and every day afterward!

enough colonization,
what good does it do?
it causes ugly wars which make
people suffer,

their lives matter!

let Palestine be free,
so they can grow up and grow
old and know the stories of 
their parents and grandparents;

so they can know something
other than the carnage of bombs
and death hanging in the air—

free palestine,
there is no need for genocide
here or anywhere.
-linda m. crate 

I Will Always Protest It 

a land already lived in 
cannot be discovered
or belong to anyone else,

some want the end of the world;

i want peace in this world—

free Palestine,
let the waters gleam with 
promise;
let the skies dance with birds
and sunshine—

let this genocide die 
instead of innocent people
just trying to make the best of
what little they have.

it breaks my heart hearing the
screams of the children,
the mothers, the fathers, the 
aunts, the uncles, the friends, the
sisters, the brothers;

end this now!

how can you look away from the
suffering of another human?
how can you not have empathy
for another soul?

i will never understand such evil,
but i will always protest it.
-linda m. crate 

LINDA M. CRATE: She is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022). Her debut book of photography Songs of the Creek (Alien Buddha Publishing, April 2023) was recently published.

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.

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.

ANNA KEIKO

Unimaginable

There is a kind of ugliness that seems reasonable 
So far people have not found a language to reveal it 
They do despicable things in the name of justice  
and dig graves from the spine of the earth downwards. 
What they hold in their arms are not their wives and children 
but are murderous weapons 
A human prison city  
has been turned into biscuits by a barbaric wizard 
Are these children that are kissed by the sun 
made of plaster? 
 
However, on another coast of the sea  
someone yawned and sang Christmas carols. 
Plan to find nourishment on the scorched earth  
after feeding it into the scorpion's mouth, 
remove the rotten parts  
and turn the rest into a crown. 

October

October is destined to be a sad season.
Green forced to a break.
The buds are dying away
barbarous; causes sadness to spread among the weak.
Autumn is not over yet, and winter is coming ahead of schedule.
Home has become a ruin, no longer shelter from the wind and rain.
The robbers took the fruit before it was ripe. Wounds,
like a baby lying in a pool of blood in the distance. Dew dyed red.
The earth is dyed red.
Brutal scenes appeared on the front pages of the newspaper...
There are no birds singing in the city, only crying
When will the tragedy stop?
Is it before spring comes?

In The Distanc

Far away, 
Lay countless babies before my eyes.
They are like leaves.
They have not yet been touched
by the warmth of spring.
Snow alike, the bullets,
Through the chest, the abdomen, the skull.
In the city that used to laugh,
Tears now shatter the dreams of peace
Ruins and corpses become the landscape.
My suffering brothers and sisters.
How will you survive the cold winter?

ANNA KEIKO is a Chinese poet, president of the Shanghai Huifeng Literature Association. Her poetry has been published in many national and international magazines. She has participated at several prestigious international poetry festivals。

LISELLE POWDER

The Song We Sing

Our song our flag represents us.
We suffered the oppression for our souls 
was in anguish.
We tried for peace and love,
but what does it bring?
We are strong and fierce our 
battles are many.
We planted and harvest, we 
defend our families till the end.
Our swords will clash and be our weapons.
The blood will flow for what is ours.
Is this what Allah wants? 
May god have mercy on us.
As we sing our song FIDA’I

Prayers For Palestine

With words that echoed through the ears of man
Time to pray, time to worship.
Muslims that bent their knees and bow their heads.
Praying to God, or Allah,
But where will the pray go?
Should I do that, should I bend and bow like them.
Yes, my knees will be bend.
I will send out a cry for the lost lives.
This is a cry for peace and hope
If there’s any hope left.
Save the children, they are hurting.
But we got to save ourselves first,
we are the head to do right.
The mind is a terrible thing to waste.

Is It The Holy Land?

But God knows, only him can judge.
A land that speaks about God but
where is God?
Judaism and Christianity is practiced.
Being controlled by many kingdoms
so much to name.
But where is God?
Is this the Bible playing out again?
Is it Cain and Abel reenactment?
Has the blood traveled through the graves?
Again, I ask Where is God?

LISELLE POWDER was born in the small Caribbean Island of Trinidad and Tobago. Born to Edwina Warner (deceased) and Bindley Powder. She is the last of six siblings. She is divorced and a mother of two daughters and a granddaughter. Having migrated to the US in 2014, she decided to write poetry about her experiences coming to America. She met with Edna White an Author, and the rest was history. Liselle has written in Edna’s book “No Sweet Meat Tell Me the Truth” and contribute to the school newspaper where she works. Liselle held her first poetry show on July 10th, 2021, she also writes in Ms. Edna’s Magazine called “SPEAK MAGAZINE.” and wrote her first short story titled “Teenage Mom” and her poetry book titled “Still Overcoming”. Her short story “Teenage Mom” together with other short stories, is a combination by different authors coming together for the Anthology “Women Write Now” which was launched in November in 2022. With her continuous writing, she was entered in an Anthology for the months of June, July and November of 2020, also June and July of 2021, and for July 2022. Liselle was awarded the Cheryl R Canton Incentive and the Willie Henry Riddick Memorial Award in June 2021, for winning an essay competition placing first. Liselle wrote another book entitled “Welcome to America,” which is on Amazon. Liselle is also an artist and has also sold some of her work. Liselle was honored and one of her poems was chosen for Black Poetry Day, in October 2022., and the reviews was excellent. Liselle will be honored in August and September at a gala ceremony for her contribution to writing. One of Liselle painting was accepted for an open call from the East Islip Council Gallery, the exhibit was in March and ended on the 14th of April. Another painting form Liselle was also accepted in an open Call to be posted on social media for the month of April, it was posted on Lisa D’Amico Arts platform and social media. Liselle also recited two of her poems at the Juneteenth celebrations 2023, in Harrisburg Pennsylvania, as she was a guest of honor sponsored by the Writers Workshop curated by Nathaniel Gadsden. Liselle hopes one day to have her first Art Show soon. Liselle has come a long way and she strives to be the best of top poets and artist the world is yet to see.

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.

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.

AZIZA DAHDOUH

Nakba

Balfour the declaration
The curse and satan’s plans
When the evil forces 
Decided to make from Palestine 
A national home for Zionist fleeing the holocaust 
Then the Nakba started
The land owners were expelled 
Refugees they became in foreign countries 
For those who refused to leave
Built their own camps
Deprived from any life necessities 
They continued suffering 
Supporting racism and violence 
Prisoners of occupiers 
An ordeal they still live
Gaza is the proof of
Massacres committed 
by barbaric hands
A real genocide is happening 
Civilians killed by thousands 
The situation is indescribable 
And ceasefires are not negotiable 

Palestina

Palestina the beautiful land
Prisoned by the monsters 
She shed blood instead of tears
Screamed many times
but none responded 
Till the masked knight appeared 
In the battlefield taking the responsibility 
Of liberating the mother land
Sworn To achieve the victory or
To die for her sake 
The battle is taking place
All hopes that Palestine will be sooner 
Free from the river to the sea
Figs and olives will be harvested 
In joyful seasons, celebrating the victory ✌️ 



The oppressor’s flag is never raised 
But the oppressed is supported by victory even if after a while🇵🇸

MAID CORBIC

The Innocent Suffer

In the silence that escapes forever
I am walking in the footsteps of Palestinian Hope
Girls, innocent people are dying
For the sake of someone and 
someone else's whim that does not meet the goal

It's easy to shoot people without shame
But how to justify the situation before God
In which one man finds himself
Just so lightly without justice and questions?

I would be silent with the steps of my hope
Forced myself to tell the world
That next to every evil one should have
A little dignity and peace to the world

We are all watching the war: people are cheering
Like at a betting shop, they tip the players
Whoever falls first is his quota
And we don't remember the blood shed for freedom

In fear of being found
They scan the space with the trace of their eyes
Reason of feeling people will write
Books and history over and over again

Because what is human life to persons
Which have no emotions and feelings
I have always said that justice exists
You just need to find her!

And justice is held by only one nation
Until we all rebel, my soul suffers
Because I only want unity and justice
Innocents die, and my soul withers!

MAID CORBIC from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time, he writes poetry that repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan.

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.

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.

BARBARA DI SACCO

Small Hands Wings Of Doves

Under the cold earth
Forced to sleep forever
like cyclamen bulbs
They put babies.
Horror rides death
The Scythe of the Mists of Time
He reaps by screaming.
Frosty Blades 
In vile hands
of hordes of barbarians
Across the border
They cut lives.
That's the price of every war
Paid for by innocents
on both sides.
Equalize the spirit level
Walls of the Tombs
of senseless tombstones
Murderers.
Hatred stifles pity
Raising a chorus of tears
in the name of Cain.
How many red flowers of blood
Anonymous Angels
martyrs of the indifferent.
Too many infertile fields
Now they are burials.
Now that everyone is crying
own dead
Enjoy the Apocalypse
What a vile seed reaps
of wheat on fire
for Herod's bread.

Piccole mani ali di colombe

Sotto la fredda terra
costretti per sempre a dormire
come bulbi di ciclamini
han messo bambini.
L' orrore cavalca la morte
la falce della notte dei tempi
miete urlando.
Lame gelide 
in mani ignobili
d' orde di barbari
oltre confine
tagliano vite.
Ecco il prezzo di ogni guerra
pagato da innocenti
di ambe parti.
Pareggia la livella
mura delle tombe
di insensate lapidi
poste da assassini.
L' odio soffoca la pietà
alzando coro di pianto
nel nome di Caino.
Quanti fiori rossi di sangue
anonimi angeli
martiri degli indifferenti.
Troppi campi infertili
or sono sepolture.
Or che ognuno piange
propri morti
gode l' apocalisse
che vile miete stirpe
di grano a fuoco
per il pane di Erode.

Such Horror Has No Title

The murderous slaughter has begun
The poor fish, with no escape
In the death chamber
harpoon their flesh.
Dolphins, tuna, who cares
as long as they die.
In place now, the brute stabbers
on tracked horses, they dismember
razing to the ground
everything, everyone.
They seek evil among ordinary civilians.
They will eradicate it, they say, by exterminating
the entire population.
What is it if not genocide, nothing else
It's war, it's shit.
People are dying, children, teenagers, women
Elderly, men, people! 
To sniff out terrorism, find it
They annihilate entire cities
and kill all civilians.
Slaughter, murder, genocide! 
Crime within a criminal war.
The world watches, sees, horrified
Protests against, disapproves
while people are dying.
Who stops this madness!!
Who's going to stop them and only when all of them 
The innocent will be killed en masse.
Barbarism, I don't want to be a spectator
nor turn your back.
Cursed be he who
Plotting against innocence
The one who kills without reason
Because there is no reason for that.
It's just too much
Too much blood shed by an entire people.
This will not be a solution for anyone
It will only serve to stir up more wars, hatred
More shit.
I totally disapprove.
Cursed once again.

Tale orrore non ha titolo

Iniziata l' assassina mattanza
i poveri pesci, senza scampo
nella camera della morte
arpionate le loro carni.
Delfini, tonni, che importa
basta che muoiano.
In atto adesso, i bruti accoltellatori
su cavalli cingolati, smembrano
radendo al suolo
tutto, tutti.
Cercano il male fra normali civili.
Lo debellano, lor dicono, sterminando
l' intera popolazione.
Cos' è se non genocidio, non altro
è guerra, è merda.
Il popolo muore, bambini, ragazzi, donne
anziani, uomini, persone ! 
Per annusare il terrorismo, scovarlo
annientano città intere
ed uccidono tutti i civili.
Mattanza, assassinio, genocidio ! 
Crimine nella guerra criminale.
Il mondo guarda, vede inorridendo
manifesta contro, disapprova
mentre la gente muore.
Chi ferma questa follia !!!
Chi li fermerà e sol quando tutti 
gli innocenti saranno uccisi in massa.
Barbarie, io non voglio essere spettatore
né girare le spalle.
Che sia maledetto chi
complotta contro l' innocenza
colui che uccide senza ragione
perché a tanto, ragione non c' è.
È veramente troppo
troppo sangue versato da un popolo intero.
Questo non sarà risolutivo per nessuno
servirà solo a smuovere altre guerre, odio
altra merda.
Disapprovo totalmente.
Maledetti ancora una volta.

The Valley Of Death

Still in the blood
They wallow
The hands of the haruspex
declaring cause of death
Destiny without a dowry
Of prodigies and souls
Poor bowels
miserable meat shot at the walls.
Sold off
to the global market
as a waste pulp
of the slaughter of war.
In the horrible bleating
Lambs slaughtered
for desecration
of an Easter rite
Why on earth
Let there be rebirth
burying them in that hell.
The earth, moved
From the Worm Revolt
of the carnaria
from the filthy subsoil
The Face of Evil
rotten
carrion 
devoured by leprosy
Disfigured and hidden
Behind the metallic masks 
of bombs.
Enlarged craters
From the explosions that sink everything
with inhuman dignity.
Rubble piles up on the contours
where they stand 
Cursed empires.

La valle della morte

Ancora nel sangue
sguazzano
le mani dell' aruspice
dichiarando causa di morte
il destino senza dote
di prodigio e anime
povere viscere
misere carni sparate ai muri.
Svendute
al mercato globale
come maceri scarti
della mattanza bellica.
Nel belato orribile
agnelli sgozzati
per la dissacrazione
di un rito pasquale
perché mai
vi sia rinascita
seppellendoli in quell' inferno.
La terra, mossa
dalla rivolta dei vermi
della carnaria
dal lurido sottosuolo
il volto del male
putrefatto
carogna 
divorata dalla lebbra
sfigurato e nascosto
dietro le metalliche maschere 
delle bombe.
I crateri allargati
dalle esplosioni che tutto affondano
con la disumana dignità.
Sui contorni si accumulano macerie
ove si ereggono 
imperi maledetti.

BARBARA DI SACCO: An Italian poet, born in Tuscany in 1964. The verses of her poetry fly freely, towards horizons of peace.  She believes that writing is a peacefully powerful, listened to, reaching straight to people’s hearts, and this is her intent as a diplomatic goal towards World Peace.

Barbara Di Sacco, poetessa italiana, nata in Toscana nel 1964. I versi della sua poesia, volano liberi, verso orizzonti di pace.  Ella ritiene che la scrittura sia un mezzo pacificamente  potente, ascoltato, arrivando dritto al cuore delle persone e questo è il suo intento come scopo diplomatico verso la Pace mondiale.

MOAEN SHALABIA

I Did Not Know Her Before

I did not know her before the last war; nevertheless
her whining letters trembled in my ears, 
but as I cast my eyes upon her poor body, I saw the first
goddess of beauty, carrying the night between her head
and her neck, 
and on her bare chest, two ivory pomegranates,
and behind her heart, there are walls, darkness, silence,
and blood on the horizon.
She was neither alive nor dead, wild and lonely is the place,
I witnessed in her, the absence of spirit and body, 
torn and naked without a homeland, 
I spoke to her unabashed, with passion and loyalty: 
I will hold your crying face, your moaning eyes,
together in the moment of justice.
I saw a warm tear in the night of fear and shiver, 
and her dreamy eyelids adored the birds of lightning and thunder,
I said: 
Come to me how you are my woman;
The rape of a woman is the rape of homeland,
no difference between the two flags,
The rapists are like the deadly occupiers; they are dead,
but came back again

Night And Wine And Woman

Far away from the war
my wooden home
has two windows opened to their limits
and shadow of a woman inflaming the distance
I look upon the sea on the wake of the evening
and upon a glass of wine 
stirring the echoes.
Far away from the war
my wooden home has the smell of dew
and the shape of a soul in the palm of a blur
in our wooden home, there is an aged jar
and a thirsty butterfly haunting me
into the futility of speech.
It is you?
and for a while, I've been looking in you for my death
here you are, and this taste is monstrous
exploding in me a volcano
and inflaming in me my sails.
Here you are
and in your eyes a storm of drunkenness
oh, you hug and burn and fill and spill me
wine over my crematorium
so don't ever change and be oh a woman
destroying all my kingdom
and embrace me as a bottle
that danced on the belt of a storm
thus, the flame of its wine burns me into poetry
for an ultimate heat and a bottle of Kamasutra
cover all my questions...!!

Translated From Arabic To English By: Dr. Nazih Kassis

Before I Forget, Write Me Down

O my lady
Before I forget, write me down   
a lover like a river that loves jasmine
and raise me a flag over the mountains
then behind the sea fire and embrace me
don't be afraid of how life has passed
without my years have passed.
Before I forget write me down  
dreaming over the ruins of nostalgia
so, hold me a kiss on the lips
then warmth over the chest and have mercy on me
don't tell us how narrow the road is for us
after my eyelids melted
do not fear how the heart shed embers
 before my arts speak
write me a story for the people, keep it secret
my eyes exposed my story
my story is silent from sorrows
If my madness, tell it at night
remember me before we leave
beloved for thousands of years
he loves homelands and people
like the sad moon.
Before I forget, write me down 
love rain like the land
all the tears that hugged me traveled
and I was alone under the bored grille
so, excuse me if the dream collapses one day
and we carried travel tissues
and we drank a cup of sadness
from springs and dreams of numbness
don't say how we left the moon
I stole the fire, my lady
and I left my heart to humans' peace.

Translated From Arabic To English By: Dr. Nazih Kassis

MOAEN SHALABIA, Born on 14 October 1958 in Maghar town – In the sea of Galilee region. Palestinian poet, One of the Arab Palestinian national minorities in Israel. Finished his studies at Haifa University. Poet and prose writer, his writing career began in 1973, he published his poems in national local newspapers and Arabic papers abroad. He published seven poetry books and three prose. His first-born was the first book of poetry in 1989. He participated in many local and international festivals around the world. He was awarded by the “Arab intellectual’s forum” – Jerusalem Al-Quds). Besides, he has received many appreciations certificates a member of the union of Arab writers and the movement of world poets (Poetas del Mundo), and a Member of Mahmoud Darwish Foundation for Creativity. His literary production was discussed and criticized in universities and many sessions in the homeland and abroad. Some of his poems were translated into many languages, like French, Turkish, English, Romanian, Polish, Macedonian, Italian, Hebrew, Bosnian, Albanian, Croatian, Russian, Portuguese, Serbian, and Bahasa Malaysia language. His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies. He won the prize of pest poetry at the international poetry festival / Tetova – Macedonia / Albania. He recently won the big prize of the “Arab Writers Union” for poetry.

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

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.

CHRISTOS DIKBASANIS

Today Let’s Love And Be Loved

Today let's fly, get rid of
the faces of hate 
of anger, injustice, discrimination
Today let's love each other
Today let's smile
for the first time, every time
let it be the first time
to the shells, in the stars
to equality, in brotherhood
to the pure–real love
Today let us kneel
on the mile-long pavement of our lives 
and let us pray together with our brothers
all the citizens of the stars
beyond languages, religions, tribes
special or unusual qualities
preferences, choices
Today let's love and be loved
because we all have the same nails
in our hands and feet
because we, 
all the creatures of the Universe
have the same Golgotha to climb

Oh, My Friend!

My brave friend
if someday you come visit me
at my white tomb
don't bring me flowers
which wither immediately
Bring me your feet
that walked along with mine
to the ends of the Earth
Bring me your hands
who fought alongside mine
at the ends of the Universe
for a few crumbs of freedom
Bring me your body
which was badly received along with mine
when otherworldly forms struggled to destroy
our dreams and desires
Bring me your mouth
that shouted out hymns of victory
along with mine
Bring me your eyes
to looked in awe
at the beauty of unknown places
along with mine
Bring me your face that hurt so much
Due to the envy, the hatred, the malice of the world
along with mine
Bring your memories
of all those insurmountable moments
that we lived together
and beat my forgetfulness
Oh! my devoted friend
if you can't give me all that
then just bring to me
the Spring of your tears!

The Gates Of Independdence

They needed our annihilation
The countless enemies
of our dreams
our beautiful life 
and the place of our dreams
seek our loss
through the dirty hands of strangers
Even if Spring had come
they would drive her out with fires
They wanted to make us ghosts
of an otherwise colorful era
to lead us into the dark realms of slavery
light years away
from our freedom
But now
the gates of eternal triumph
are wide open for us to walk
inland of glory
of independence
and immortal memories

CHRISTOS DIKBASANIS is a poet, writer and scholar of religions. He was born in Thessaloniki, where he graduated from the Theological School of the Aristotle University. He holds a Master’s Degree from the Theological School with a specialization in Religious Studies. It has also been included in the “Great Encyclopedia of Modern Greek Literature” of Haris Patsi publications and in the “Who’s Who” of journalists. He has been honored with many national and international awards for his poems.

NAILA HINA

Historical Perspective

In lands where ancient echoes sing, 
A tale of strength and suffering, 
The cradle of humanity’s birth, 
A place where countless dreams found worth.

Through trials and tears, they stood so tall,
 Resilient hearts, they’d never fall, 
A history etched in pain and grace,
 In every line on every face.

From the Pharaohs to the desert’s haze,
 In ancient times, through countless days, 
The stories of a resilient land, 
Where people’s hopes and dreams expand.

Futuristic Perspective

In a future world where peace does reign,
A brighter path, we can attain, 
No borders, no divisions stark, 
A shared destiny, a hopeful spark.

Where nations old and new unite,
To build a world that’s just and right, 
No hatred, fear, or endless fight,
 Just love and peace in endless light.

In unity, we all can thrive, 
A future where we all can strive, 
To build a world where hope does soar, 
And open hearts forevermore.

Recent Struggles

In lands where faith and courage dwell,
 Recent struggles, we must retell, 
A people’s cry for justice heard,
 In every heart, their pain’s conferred.

Every child who has been killed 
Is actually getting alive 
Each drop of blood is a star
For martyrs never ever die! 

Through prayers and tears, they stand so strong, 
Facing trials, righting every wrong,
 In unity, their voices rise,
 In the face of sorrow, hope defies.

A call for peace, a call for grace, 
In these trying times, we embrace,
The strength of spirit, love that binds,
In unity, our hearts aligns.

Hope For A Better Tomorrow

In the shadow of recent sorrow, 
We pray for a brighter tomorrow,
With hearts united, we shall stand,
In solidarity, hand in hand.

For in the teachings that we hold dear, 
Compassion, peace, and love appear, 
A world where hope and kindness thrive,
In unity, together we’ll strive.

With open hearts, we seek the way,
 To heal the wounds, to bring the day, 
When all can live in peace and grace, 
And smiles on every face we trace.

***

In the pages of time, where history unfolds,
In lands of ancient tales, where stories are told, 
A place where hearts ache, with stories untold, 
In solidarity with Palestine, we stand bold.

In the past, through the ages, a resilient land, 
With cultures and civilizations, so grand, 
From Pharaohs to empires, it took its stand, 
A cradle of history, a vast desert’s sand.

In the future, we envision a brighter day, 
Where peace and justice will surely find a way,
A world where unity will light the way, 
In solidarity with Palestine, we say.

Through the galaxies new, in the future’s domain, 
Where stars and planets in the cosmos reign,
We hope for a world free from sorrow and pain,
In solidarity with Palestine, we maintain.

So let us all unite, past and future combined, 
To stand for justice, leaving no one behind, 
In solidarity with Palestine, in our hearts enshrined, 
A world of peace and love, together we’ll find.

Engr Dr NAILA HINA: (Dr. CMA, MBA, B. E.) A Former Engineering University Instructor, an international award-winning author of 100+ multilingual books, a poet from Karachi, Pakistan. Best Writer of the Decade, editor, translator. Literary Captain at Story Mirror. Recommend for Nobel Prize for Literature 2022. * Continental Manager of Asia, World Press Agency. Naila Hina is humanitarian and graceful. She holds basic degree in Mechanical Engineering with MBA and CMA. She has been awarded Honorary Doctorates. Multitalented she has written poems and books since childhood. Her name is recommended for Nobel prize for Literature 2022. * Dr Naila Hina has translated many Nobel Prize works in Urdu, like Richard Feynman’s book: Surely You are joking Mr. Feynman! Engr. Dr Naila Hina is the first person to translate the Deewaan/ poems of Imrul Qais, father of Arabic poetry.  Dr Naila Hina has published and translated all the books of Dutch poet Germain Droogenbroodt.. She owns a radio station named as Bahisht e Char saat, and NCN Naila-Hina cultural media Network.

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

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.

CONCETTA LA PLACA

God, Stop This War

Please, my God,
come back to us.
Where did you go?
You have escaped 
from the infamous world.

Please block
these useless wars,
which are setting the planet on fire,
making it a place of violence, 
destruction and pain.

Let peace return again
between brotherly peoples,
that fight each other
like the worst enemies.

In the name of a homeland
they massacre themselves
thousands of people
and first of all the children,
future of our humanity.

O my Lord, grant a little respite 
and, with a breath of peace, extinguish, forever,
this senseless hate.

I Open The Window

It’s a gloomy
sad 
autumnal 
Sunday.

I open the window wide
and, with my tortured heart, I observe the beauty of life
in the little things that are around me.

I see the beauty, because it's there,
under my gaze,
while I’m watching
the opened bud
of the cyclamen on my windowsill.

I see it in the tender movement
of a little bird,
resting on the railing, integrated with harmony
with the surrounding nature.

I see it in the load and clear laugh
of a child,
that comes out
from the house
opposite mine.

Above all,
I see it in those two boys,
the Israeli and the Palestinian ones
whose people of origin
are eternally in conflict.

In my heart and in my dreams, they are together, 
hugging each other,
like brothers, going towards the future, 
beyond all nationalism and borders, 
whispering Shalom.

Martyred Palestine

They are tormented by misery, 
bombed and governed
by an absurd indifference
which engulfs them in a war.

Fire in Gaza hits
old people, children and hospitals
without pity and mercy,
they are unjustly condemned..

In the shadow and in the name of the two homelands, 
which are always at war with each other, 
they are ready to die to save their strip of land.

How nice it would be if
the two States, in peace and joy,
respected each other, everyone
maintaining one's harmony.

War is not a game
and when it starts
it is destructive
and it is never short. 

Do not kill the children, nor get them hungry.
They are the future of a population,
they are small and have no guilt.

It would be nice to live
in an atmosphere of peace,
respecting everyone's life
because time is fleeting

It remains an evanescent dream
Palestine and Israel
held in one heart
of shining love.

CONCETTA LA PLACA: The author, Concetta la Placa, was born in Caltanissetta in Sicily on 07/30/1960 and lives in Rome. From an early age she has always shown that she has a creative nature. She holds a degree in administration and management of social policies. She loves literature and poetry in general. She is passionate about reading and creative writing. In December 2020 her first collection of poems was published, entitled “Cosmic Love and Emotions in the Wind”. It is a collection of 55 poems, all linked by a single common thread: Cosmic Love, which is love for the little things that surround us in this immensity and love for simplicity, enriched only by pure emotions and true feelings. The author has published several poems in numerous national and international anthologies of various authors and various contests to which she has contributed with her participation. The list of publications would be a bit long and is therefore omitted.