Issue 2, June 2017

In the Roses path by Hassan al-Mahdi

The colorful butterflies dance with me, I am who is the aromatic tree. I open thousands sleeve over my face that comes from a distant nebula. Nebula that doesnot fit the devourers or the rodents.
Laying my hands as trunks dangle with breeze of the morning for the canarys and sparrows, meanwhile the pink color coronate the other side of the sun.
The time fannished in the black sheets and the love talismans were written by hot cloud rain draw from my eye at sympathy awhile. And in the path of roses. I look with the grace at the poor red dragonfly faltering in the throw of purpose. Oh, lost dreams in the kingdom of immortality between the bow and the arrow poison venom.
In the roses path, there are only the shadows headers in the courtyard bay, space smoke, fire attendants and a crystaly tragedies enveloping the bodies.

Hassan al-Mahdi, Iraq

Tale of a Tree by Nidhi Kunvarani

One day by the grace of supreme divinity I was sent here on the earth with the intense to give people to love, shelter, fruits and also mirth! My roots heir in the creation of ameba to ape and ape to men!  That's all the history I've been read about my heritage whosoever had written! I love to spread love among my family, friends and whomsoever to I meet! In small span of life wish to give my best as candle light! Some people have many times tried to cut me without knowing my pains! But, my roots are much deeper they didn't know I'll bear once again as phoenix from those remained ashes! My wish is not to world; write my name with golden carves. I wish to remain alive forever in few hearts to my family and friends and you all are Pilgrimages! 

Nidhi Kirtibhai Kunvarani is an India poem and writer . She is a Learner and research aspirant of the English Literature. She Completed M.A English Literature from M.KB.U University Gujarat. She is Interested in studying new literary studies and research of colonial and post-Colonial theories. She Won several contests awards for English poetry.

The Old Oak Tree by Walid Boureghda

She had scrounged an instant of silence from time, and had commenced to forage around in the stream of events. Although the wind was heavily blustering and the leaves were swayingly falling off the trees, a total tranquility was soundly overwhelming all through before her. Her single reflection just showed up whilst she was staring at the old oak tree in the nearby, questionably wondering how awkwardly the gusty wind was wagging its branches. 
The wind was spotlessly trying to break down the old oak's bole; yet the tree was highly adamant, only its dead leaves naturally fell off, just like her tears of despair when her eyes were fully shedding down her rosy cheeks. Despite the disappearance of pain and the stillness of its blemishing effects, her crystal tears were miraculously sent forth as a magic balm on the incurable wounds.

  Walid Boureghda, Algeria

Two Poems by Anjali Denandee

The Ruminant

Then I was a girl. I lived in Chaitanyabati village. At afternoon, I played on the bank of the river Damadar. I watched that so many cows were returning in their sheds. Their mouths were covered by net musks so they were trying to eat the plants of the fields which were side of their way but couldn't eat for the net musks. But they tried and tried again and again. Ultimately, they reached in their destinations in the sheds. They were ruminants so they were chewing again. Then, I came back from the playing field to my house just at evening. Then my mother enlightened our house with lamps. She showed that lamp-light to the cow's shed also. And I was always with her as her shadow. Now I am in New Delhi like the ruminant I am working with my past memories now

I am not I am

I am the cloud. Yet, I am nothing. When I gift my water as rain, then I am not I am. I become satisfied after the raining from me. By my rain, the Earth becomes very happy! But, I am finished by own self, by me. And never come back, as same as the lives of the Earth, who dyi, they never return. Yes, I am only for sacrifice. Though, I am ever free yet, I come down by the attraction of the Earth, on it.

 Anjali Denandee, India

Silence of the flowers by Virginia Jasmin Pasalo

It is getting to be a habit, this three-hour sleep. I woke up at 2:45 a.m., listening at first to the sound of parrots imitating the sound of humans and the Gregorian chant imitating the voice of angels. Then, I turned off the music and listened to the streets that never sleep.
The streets have many stories to tell, but never spoke. Others spoke for them, the blood of suspected addicts for example, still cries for justice, long after it was backed by the heat underneath and the sun above it. The dirt too, and the dog shit, cursed as people stepped on them, and they fumed even after being carted away, or conveniently covered with sand. There’s blood and stink in the streets of Marawi and they too are shouting stories, muted by the silence of the authorities. There is a deafening quiet in the news, in the mimes, and the memes.
No one seems to listen, and people pass by, hurrying to go to places, in quick steps, and when interrupted in any way, utter monosyllabic curses repeated many times over, that it becomes a sentence with no specific subject and no defined predicate. Winds, stronger than their voices, blew the stories away, and brought them to the sea, where the mermaids kept them as songs, composed by others, from a distance, where the grass was green, once. And then i listen to the silence. I listen to the silence of the flowers. 

 Virginia Jasmin Pasalo, Philippines