PM JUNE 23-Z

Naizmjenična struja bila mu je fah, s Westinghouseom prevazišavši krah. Hidroelektrane reputaciju mu podigoše opet, a to za njega bješe njegov novi motor. Teslino strujno kolo, sad zna cijeli svijet, tehnološki spektar, elektro-transformator. Bežičnu energiju i elektromagnetizam, te vatrene sile obuzdavao je sam u stanu svom, svi su se divili naprednoj tehnologiji toj, čudesnom bežičnom elektro-tornju, njegovom. New York mu sad podiže i \"Nickola Corner\" sred 40-e ulice i 6-e Avenije. Tesla Motor pojavi se 2003-e, pa prosperira s dizajnom novog električnog auta. 2017-e, pojaviše se, čudni Model S i ini rušeći sve rekorde od 0-60 mph za 2,28 sekundi, dokazavši da to elektro-auto može ići brže nego Porsche ili Lamborghini. Teslin naučni centar (TSC) razvijen je 2008. i zamišljen je kao muzej. Oatmeal.com 2012, zajedničko financiranje, preuzimanje TSC-a u 2013. U toku su radovi na očuvanju sigurnosti ljudi, jer su Tesline ideje uvijek išle u tom pravcu, da se čovječanstvo budi. Nikola Testa, inženjer, predano posvećen razvoju društva modernog. Pa se svi njegovi izumi sve više koriste za dobrobit čovječanstva širom svijeta novog. Uz električne sisteme i tehnologije sve bolje, i čuveno rotirajuće elektromagnetno polje. Sin Srpskog sveštenika i majke inovatora kućanskih aparata. U Hrvatskoj rođen, uz tri sestre i jednoga brata. Strujom opsjednut i vizijom jasnom, sa diplomom na Austrijskom Institutu Politehničkom i Univerzitetu Praškom. U Budimpešti, potom, izumom asinhronog motora, renome će steći, prelaskom u Ameriku ko’ ugledni naučnik, neprikosnoveno postaje najveći! Nickola Tesla ne odmara ni tren, daje sve od sebe duboko posvećen, ispunjava sve zadatke za tren, njegov um je zauvijek blagoslovljen! ©® Joseph Spence Sr. Translated by Zlatan Demirović 51

Zlatan Demirović, bilingual book writer, novelist, critic, internationally acknowledged poet, and trilingual translator (English, Czech, Bosnian-Croatian-Serbin languages). * The founder of PRODIGY LIFE ACADEMY and author of the PRODIGY LIFE PROGRAM, which serves as a platform for spiritual and personal development. * Founder and Editor in Chief of PRODIGY PUBLISHED USA (publishing, promoting books, self-developing programs, anthologies of world multilingual poetry etc.) * Multiply awarded as a poet, philanthropist, and humanist. * Founder and editor of Prodigy Magazine 2022 Translated into: Italian, French, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Swedish, Dutch, Greek, Turkish, Chinese, Russian, Japanese, Hindu, Bengal, BCS (Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian), Albanian, Hausa Nigerian, Arabic, Aleut (Alaska), Pakistan, Bahasa-Indonesia, Kurdish, Persian, Azerbaijan, Bangla, Tajik, Bulgarian, Romanian, Hebrew, Punjabi, Slovenian, Czech, Slovak, Macedonian, Tamil, Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Nepali, Assam, and more, on the way. 52

MEXICO FRANCISCO AZUELA-Mexico ALIEN EIGHT They left you, homeland, when you threw flowers to the stars and your sons were searching for a crust of bread in the shadow of the border. They left the tomb to bury hundreds of the dead, they left the Plaza of the Republic, a drop of water fell on your head, the scopolamine and the pentothal broke your memory, you could not invent even the smallest of lies, your bones afloat left like a solar ray, with wounded hands you spoke your true name, obstinate in death. When they leave the homeland, all stuff themselves with silence, it cannot be forgotten. 53

Wherever falls the sound of the stone a god the size of a scarab cries between the boulders with half its body missing. ©® Francisco Azuela Translated by Ron Hudson. USA THE DEATH OF THE POET I Like a regret the sad eye of the homeland cries for the death of the poet, the flight of the birds understood its geography, it was hiding in his Soul, it was raining pain in his life, the evening was falling like the last sign of a mystery. II He sleeps beneath the starry night, the homeland is in combat with its silences. The poet has already left, he has gone away without farewell. III Tomorrow will be another day, the day of silent and profound death like the ultimate sign of life that is lost, of the lost life in the flight of the birds whose small bodies sketch figures of illusion in the air guided by the magic of the setting sun, by the eternal sun. 54

IV You left me in the emptiness, you freed my hand from your heart, I did not know how to return, I could not come back, death embraced me in its eternities. You told me farewell without recalling my memory in a city such as this that rains tears of wind. ©® Francisco Azuela Translated by Ron Hudson. USA • *Francisco Azuela. Mexican poet and writer (1948). Dr. H. C. of the Honoris Causa Doctoral Cloister of Mexico. • Awarded with one of the 4 Awards granted by a prestigious jury of the California State Polytechnic University, through its Department of English and Foreign Languages (College of Letters, Arts, and Social Sciences), to integrate the Spring Harvest International 2006 / 2007, one of the most prestigious English language editions in the United States. • Solenzara International Poetry Grand Prize, Université de la Sorbonne, Paris, France 2013. • Vincitori Assoluti XXXV Premio Mundiale di Poesía Nósside, Italy, 2020 and Ambassador in the World of the Nosside Prize, 2021. • Honorary President of the Sydney International Poetry Festival, Australia 2022. • Honorable Advisor of ASP (Poetry Garden) Digital magazine of Chinese Literature. • Twice nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, 2021, 2022 and 2023. • International Judge of \"Wen Aiyi Poetry Award\" Award Selection \"Most Beautiful Poem\" and \"Most Beautiful Poetry Collection\" of Qixi Festival 2022-2023 in China. • Second Merit Award ex aequo VOICES FROM THE WORLD International Prize for Literary Art “Il Canto di Dafne”, Italia 2022. 55

LUIS SERRANO-MEXICO SLOWLY BIRDS BENIGHT Slowly birds benight beak hidden under the wings unsheltered corollas by the walls of old churches they leave early return later write a date on the living slate of heaven they know that death awaits them a destiny only an oblivion a brief farewell the white face of finitude ©® Luis Serrano ON THE ROAD OF THE PAST I write about the past the sometimes cloudy river one does not forget 56

of the future I know nothing I would like to rest among forests and mountains lost gardens of loose water interferences of quartz and lavender on high rugs of tender grass there I would let the weariness fall on the earth be just a seed of sleep thrown into the bottomless wells of eternity ©® Luis Serrano Luís Serrano was born in Évora (Portugal) in 1938. He is a graduate of the University of Coimbra. He has lectured in the field of earth sciences at the Universities of Coimbra and Aveiro until he retired. He took a special study programme at the University of Bordeaux and at CSIC Madrid. He published eight poetry books and more than a hundred essays (chonicles and critical notes on literary themes). 57

HILDA MÉNDEZ RAMÍREZ-Mexico HER, THE CITY The gate of the walled city opened, the jungle revealed to time, I run through its paths as the last breath, as the utmost messenger, I reach the riverflow and get to open sea. Some time ago it was just sea, reached the river, climbed into the jungle, reached the city of suicides. Time… does not efface a thing. ©® Hilda Méndez Ramírez SEA Arise sea in entrance to my dreams, rachitic smile before my sight, blue poems fraught of sadness 58

revering the absent ghost, enlighten the ancient poets who love men and turn them into metaphoric humans, seal with your voice the hyperbole of maximum reality, whom paradox, unites opposites. ©® Hilda Méndez Ramírez Translation Dyma Ezban Hilda Méndez Ramírez _ was born in Irapuato in 1960_, I met her in the University of Guanajuato, at the Philosophy and Literature School in 1981. The poetry of Hilda Méndez announces in the necessity of making leaps. M. Heidegger accepts the leap for understanding the suppression of being, and transforms it in relation with the Being (because sooner or later this Being will come and the thing to do for now is just wait); arising out of a leap of sense, the poetry of Decrees and other Seas, attains to make the leap from the commitment to acknowledge of living already sentenced, to a metaphor as the brief dissolution of the living in the concreteness of infinite. Leap that is not only presented in contents but in forms…, 59

GUISELA CUEN GARIBI-Mexico THE AWAKENING A young man touched the chin of a woman and the dancers of her spirit swirled in the tablao of her skin. ©® Guisela Cuen Garibi UNLEARN To get to you I've come a long way. I thought I would arrive with experience and some knowledge. I learned, as I traveled to you, that I didn't know anything about the journey, or about me. ©® Guisela Cuen Garibi 60

Guisela Cuen Garibi is a communication specialist who graduated from the Universidad Iberoamericana de León. She completed her PhD in Education at the Autonomous University of Madrid, Spain. Her writing career began in 2011 with the writer Carmen Simón, then she studied the advanced poetry writing course with the Spanish poet Luis Luna. Later, she began practicing narrative writing under Mexican American writer Fernanda Reyes Retana. Since 2020 she has been studying with Dr. Demetrio Vázquez Apolinar in the creative writing laboratory of the University of Guanajuato. She has written and published on issues of humanism in the magazine Redes Altum and in the magazine Presencia of the University of Guanajuato. She teaches text analysis and production classes and is a researcher at the Universidad del Instituto Irapuato. She will soon publish her first book of poetry: Las Capas de la Ser-Bolla with Editorial Académica Española. 61

JOSUÉ FERNANDO MORALES GÓMEZ-Mexico THE WHEEL The wheel is no longer a wheel or cart, does not turn as aforetime on the roads, is fiction, fantasy, comics, It is a drama forgotten by children. My life and the cart are the same, a before and after without progression a traveler lost in the abyss, a carriage without actualization. I will no longer come or go, nor will I stumble, My chariot is stagnant, I will ipso facto forget those directions that as a happy young man he frequented, I will doubt like those globetrotters who have lost the north and their rod. ©® Josué Fernando Morales Gómez I’M A MAN I know I'm a man of alfeñique, maybe a little harsh but very fragile, 62

maybe too white and hollow inside but very sweet. I'm made for your mouth and for your eyes but my time is short, only in November I will be available and if you bite me the almond-shaped flavor will be present a second on your tongue and then absent, I will be a sweet memory in your young mind. Don't buy me, girl, No! that I am not perennial. ©® Josué Fernando Morales Gómez Maestro Josué Fernando Morales is a writer from León, Gto., has a great career and is currently the coordinator of the State Network of Literary Tertulias of the State of Guanajuato José Luis Calderón Vela. He's a promoter of poetry and untouchable writing. 63

BELGIUM WILLIE VERHEGGHE-Belgium BLACK EAGLE OCANA O la la, the French chanson at its best, surrounded with sounds of velvet and gold born out of the wondrous voice of Barbara, the singing goddess, always dressed in black. From her otherworldly realm she sings about an eagle that suddenly comes from nowhere, a bird reigning between heaven and earth, sometimes even imperial floating around Tourcols as I once saw in '90 from the Lotto team car in the rapid descent of the Aubisque, in the footsteps of the released giant Hendrik Redant and previously dwarfed Charly Mottet, a razor-sharp image engraved in my race-crazy head. An eagle that also reminds me of Luis Ocana, to his gifted body in a petrified pose with intermediate fame from birth to death, pure Spanish belleza on a slender bicycle, the plain Bic ballpoint pen ad on the chest, jet black sideburns to make Elvis jealous, legs that never end in their proud cadence to faster and higher, in short: a work of art made of tense muscles. 64

But besides this parade of exquisite qualities there is also the macabre ending with its self-prepared death still firing violently from a revolver to this day, a death like a great dark bat dominating my pen and thoughts when I think of the lavishly gifted Luis and of his blood-curdling crashes in mountain landscapes which usually sleep in a bed of granite rest. Two years bear the burden between lust and decay when I put racing cyclist Ocana in shaky words: the drama on the col de Menté in the 1971 Tour and the triumphal year 1973, shrouded in radiant yellow. Or Luis from hell to heaven in barely two years: the previously nameless and colorless col de Menté wildly swinging his hatchet in a curve and takes down the rickety descending leader and sends him groaning into an ambulance. With the not to forget disastrous extras on top of an unchained Merckx and the bouncing combination of the Agostinho-Zoetemelk duo colliding with Luis. In the grayish sky a wounded eagle that fluttering to the tones of the tingling voice timbre from Barbara seeking distant safe places, the end of a black asphalt-necked dream. Two years later in Paris with the Ocana triumph in the background the dove of peace in Beatle boss John Lennon who composes and sings his mythical Imagine, also the year in which Vietnam can finally heal its wounds after Agent Orange and napalm create hell. The Col de Menté and Paris: benchmarks cut into stone tables for and of a rider who is very strong and at the same time fragile was like glass, almost too beautiful to sweat or fall vulgarly. After cycling he went astray vigorously and uncompromisingly with shaky vineyards and armagnac with the help from Merckx and Janssen he tried in vain to sell. As a sports director, he was too self-willed and he searched in vain for copies of himself. With the eternal sadness in his dark eyes and beautiful women who willingly let themselves be caught, a cupid surrounded with mirages and castles in the air. On top of that a blood transfusion that ravaged his liver, two car crashes that cracked his bones and 65

also with poor eyesight and hearing as a result: it all became too much for him, his proud shoulders found it increasingly difficult to bear the misery, his wife Josiane who sat so lovingly next to him when he was in the hospital of Saint-Gaudens licked his wounds sustained in the 1971 Tour couldn't stop his decline and even wanted to leave him, the apocalyptic descent of the col de Menté grafted himself into his daily life, to destruction. Merckx had outlived Menté and Orcières-Merlette, had scrambled straight and rode on triumphantly, Luis, on the other hand, who went in an attempt to face the Cannibal, submerged, the flooded Pyrenees had dried up and granted him the one-time great triumph the one in the newspaper L' Equipe with the words of admiration of the tropically helmeted Jacques Godet were awarded: ‘Un Ocana superbe, athlète racé, ayant une vue claire de la situation’. Little or nothing was left of that clear view, the fallen warrior shriveled into a heap of misery that would crystallize almost twenty years later in a black diamond in the rough, an overweight Koh-i-Noor which even his faithful Josiane could not wear, she who had to endure the moody straits of Luis and described his suicide as a massacre by the revolver she'd been looking for so much earlier but which she had found too late. She later stated that she continued to blame Luis for this, that last blood picture that never left her, the fatally pierced skull and shot vanity in a body that was worn out and total loss. Ah, feverish cycling god Luis Ocana, haughty ruler of cam wheels and cols, your dramatic passage on the stage of the bright yellow cycling theater has been sketched in indelible Chinese ink, with letters that are etched like merciless claws in the memory of the faithful and naive cycling enthusiasts. Or the whirlwind of victory, downfall and death of a champion who outran himself and finally lost his way, drama of fame turned to frenzy. ©® Willie Verhegghe 66

translation Dutch into English: Hannie Rouweler Willie VERHEGGHE (Belgium) born Denderleeuw, 22 June 1947 Socially engaged poet, combines parlando style with a socially critical view. Wrote about the mining disaster in Marcinelle (Marcinelle, 1995) and about the Vietnam War (Flanders 1914-1918, Vietnam 1946 – 1973, 1973). The lives of mentally handicapped fellow human beings were also treated several times in his work (Leven op Schoonderhage, 1983). In his poetry he commemorated art brothers such as Raveel and Boon. Dedicated a collection to his son Miguel, who died young. Reviewed for De Morgen, Poeziekrant and Ons Erfdeel. Since 1999 also a novelist. His cycling poems are widely known: 'Peyresourde', 'De Ronde van Vlaanderen', 'Renners don't die'. His cycling poems also feature on the legendary Wall of Geraardsbergen. City Poet of Ninove. 67

GERMANY HUSSEIN HABASCH-Germany-Kurdistan I AM SORRY MOTHER! It's me, Hussein Habasch I am sorry mother for the labor pains I caused you when I was born more than fifty years ago. I am sorry for the pain I have caused you for my twenty-five years Of enforced absence from you. Oh mother, how can your tired heart bear all this pain? Where does all this patience come from? I am sorry, mother. I am sorry on behalf of your absent daughters and sons. Two exiled sons in Denmark, Four others in Germany, A son in Istanbul, A daughter living on the edge of humanity in Aleppo After her home was occupied in Afrin, And another daughter living in refugee camps in al-Shahba After her home was also occupied in Afrin! And a big family, homeless in so many places. Mother, we, your exiled sons and daughters, Sorry for all the pain we have caused And are still causing to you. ©® Hussein Habasch 68

Hussein Habasch is a poet from Afrin, Kurdistan. He currently lives in Bonn, Germany. Born in 1970 in Şiyê Village. His poems have been translated into English, German, Spanish, French, Persian, Uzbek, Albanian, Russian, Romanian, Italian, Serbian, Macedonian, Bulgarian, Polish, Slovenian, Lithuanian, Vietnamese, Nepali, Hindi, Malayalam, Kannada, Tajik, Bengali, Turkish, Berber (Amazigh), Bosnian, Portuguese, Hungarian, Chinese, Greek, Mandarin (the language of Taiwan) and Tzotzil (the language of the Mayan peoples of Mexico), and has had his poetry published in a large number of international poetry anthologies, more than 100 anthologies. His books include: Drowning in Roses, Fugitives across Evros River, Higher than Desire and more Delicious than the Gazelle's Flank, Delusions to Salim Barakat, A Flying Angel, No pasarán (in Spanish), Copaci Cu Chef (in Romanian), Dos Árboles and Tiempos de Guerra (in Spanish), Fever of Quince (in Kurdish), Peace for Afrin, peace for Kurdistan (in English and Spanish), The Red Snow (in Chinese), Dead arguing in the corridors (in Arabic) Drunken trees (in Kurdish), Boredom of a tired statue (in Kurdish), Flor del Espinillo (in Spanish) A Rose for the Heart of Life, selected Poems (in English) and Olvido (in Spanish). He participated in many international festivals of poetry including: Colombia, Nicaragua, France, Puerto Rico, Mexico, Germany, Romania, Lithuania, Morocco, Ecuador, El Salvador, Kosovo, Macedonia, Costa Rica, Slovenia, China, Taiwan, Cuba, Sweden, New York City, Sarajevo, Greece andAlbania. Recipient of the Great Kurdish Poet Hamid Bedirkhan Award, awarded by the General Union of Kurdish Writers and Journalists. As well as the International “Bosnian Stećak” award for Poetry, awarded by the Bosnia and Herzegovina Writers Union. Bronze poetry award Aristotle from Naoussa international poetry festival in Greece. 69

PORTUGAL MARIA DO SAMEIRO BARROSO-Portugal VERTIGO Listening to Mozart, the Piano Concerto Nr 13, I sense purple cathedrals, sutured roses, orange forests, sparse violins, multiple cellos, and a pulsating echo rising among orchids, wind, different metals. It is as if I drink from crystalline potions, and my body sways in the agile vertigo running through the reverse of the mirrors, everything transfiguring: the blackberries of childhood, white linen, the cloudless sky, unexpected sounds inscribing in the human imperfection, musical flames transcribing 70

sounds that transcribe the fire, the moon, the sea, the shadows, the ancient sadness fading away, my face reviving now just to the cheerful face of velvety pansies. ©® Maria do Sameiro Barroso FROM THE FLUTE PLAYERS UP TO THE VOID OF THE UNIVERSE The flute players have always surrounded me, whenever the sun melts in me along with rites of sacred animals, horses, bulls and dolphins, everything summoning beauty: the fruits, your hands, the flower of instincts. The flute players have always dwelt in my unknown world of mystery. When I stare at them, my gaze starts drifting through countless images, and my hands get lost in a grey sea, under a blue background of white doves. Summoning my most charming tunes, my heart voids itself slowly, and I anticipate the taste and the feeling of the pathways of the silence to the great void of the universe. The flute players always bring along their magic, their charms, touching my skin, my soul, lingering in my mind, carrying me into the purest sound of my dreams. In their melodies, I read the joy and sadness. The balance of the world echoes in their tunes, fixing the light in the radiant flower 71

of the darkness. That's where my ears once sprouted. In the cellars of childhood, the pigments of heavenly colours breathed in the fertile land of silence, and unexpected gifts. My hands were mirrors of loose harmony, naming the sounds, the incessant hammers, the magic circles. The symbols were the elementary rose of primordial synergy. Sharing my world with the fairies and the elves I knew the flight, the faintest light, the seeds of gold. In the flow of the nights, in the chimaera of the days, feeling the voice of the earth ploughed by sleepless priestesses pouring the lunar incense, the embalmed mornings came back to life, and I found myself in the sap of the stars of unconquered brightness. in the shadow, in the ashes, and in the trees that I always plant in my poems. ©® Maria do Sameiro Barroso Maria do Sameiro Barroso (Portugal) is a Medical Doctor, a Germanist and a multilingual and awarded poet, translator, essayist, a scholar and researcher in Portuguese and German Literature, Translation Studies and History of Medicine. She has authored over 40 books of poetry and translations, and essays. Her poems are translated into over thirty languages, resulting from her international activities and participation in poetry festivals. 72

INÊS LOURENÇO-Portugal BREAKING-LIGHT I’m wary of poets who talk of light, of mornings and of trees in their welcoming obsession of fruits birds and leaves. I’m wary of those who sing of fireplaces and meek voices, trying to appease the poem with their incense industry. They stage like old prophets belated schemes of extinct beauty – and from the verse they forge a stillborn ritual of minor affections indifferent to the incandescent knife that separates the body of the words from the substance of the world. ©® Inês Lourenço Translated from Portuguese by Diniz Borges 73

THE BOOKS Books last for centuries and they speak of the melody in the rain, of the rivers and the seas, of the foutains, of the moist kisses from the lovers, but they also die splintered in any type of storm that shatters the panes and unsettles the pages in a brutal liquid invasion. And they speak of fire of passions, of stars burning in the infinite, but the coexistence of the flames is forbidden to them, even though the clumsy ignorance has condemned them so many times. How many shipwrecks and fires destroy them, only to have multiple resurgences, audacious friends so old and yet so new. ©® Inês Lourenço Translated from Portuguese by Diniz Borges INÊS LOURENÇO was born in Porto in November 1942. She published around 13 titles of poetry and 2 of micronarratives. She integrated several collective books, anthologies, national and foreign literary magazines. There are some anthologies dedicated to her writing, the last one being published in Brazil (2019). She has had praiseworthy critical reviews by leading essayists. Between 1987 and 1999, she organized the “Poetry Notebooks-HÍFEN”, with ten published numbers, widely referenced in the cultural press of the time. She was a resident poet at the Porto Book Fair in 2020. She has a degree in LLM (Portuguese Studies) from FLUP – University of Porto. 74

JOSÉ MANUEL DE VASCONCELOS-Portugal THE FALL INTO POETRY To the memory of Joaquim-Francisco Coelho and Albano Martins The old man lost his balance and sprawled himself in the foyer he was home alone, he thought he was going to die his wife would only arrive hours later as always coming from work He began then to recite poems in the possible voice considering the position of his tangled body (he knew many by heart—they would last for hours if he wouldn't pass away meanwhile): “And she is dying piece-meal of a sort of emotional anaemia” and on he went: Dickinson, Frost, Williams Suddenly it occurred to him: if I went through so many experiences and to the immensity of life contained in them I managed to resist I shall not die yet With effort, he managed to lift himself up, to stand staggering, he opened the window and little by little sunk again in the rumours of the day ©® José Manuel De Vasconcelos 75

THE EMBARKATION FOR CYTHERA But where is Cythera anyway? Where does the barge that was expected at every moment docks, the heart of fate, the warm twilight of skin and thinking? The lost images flee over the sea of chewy time and we no longer discover love in any light not all noise is sweet to this blindness Perhaps the arrow has been deflected misaligned this dance that went down the river of desire in tints of abandonment maybe it got dark all of a sudden on crushed lips, on beach-words Are we arriving or leaving? We come and go whenever we talk about love incited by the uncertain day travelled but the air rejoices, desires merge the crossing is long and hot the shadows cool stones contemplated with malice and ardour As at other times, everything turns green releasing and crossing faint melancholies open tears, pain and loose dreams and we get into the hurried boat ─ departure or point of arrival ─ I hold you with my hand already missing you the breeze shakes your hair you run across the sand ─ we were eternal! we trample the disillusions on the ground we forget the pitfalls, the rocks of the prosaic day that is after all inevitable and with another weight, following other forms, departing and arriving 76

on this bridge thrown to illusory time it is the wind that takes us inebriated by the sea ©® José Manuel De Vasconcelos Born in Lisbon in 1949. Poet, essayist and translator, he published several books of poetry, as well as essays and book reviews. He is vice-president of the Portuguese Association of Writers and collaborator of the Osservatorio Permanente Sugli Studi Pavesiani nel Mondo. He has poems translated into Spanish, French, Italian, German, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic and Romanian. he was awarded the poetry prize of the Portuguese PEN Club. 77

LEOCÁDIA REGALO-Portugal KING STAR In the poem skin do I feel you my sunny G major key that warms my poetry. Spread on me the tender heat inflaming the wild hesitations. Fetch me the voluptuousness of secrets exiled in the edge of desire listening to the tide. Eclipse me in that astral possession a king wedding my nakedness whispering in the ear the gentle appeal that drains in your anxious sap. 78

Your heat your light your key are the dance on me. ©® Leocádia Regalo Translated by J. A. Franco HE MISTERY OF THE DAYS I don’t know yet how to bring light to the mystery of the days. Passing by known paths I feel a revelation. On each sign I read a meaning. At every crossroads I catch the misty justification of things. Could I renew my instant suspending from the flow of words each syllable in its original brightness I would change into pure magma the fulvid spiral of silence whirling in the unseen crystal of things to be named. ©® Leocádia Regalo Translated by J. A. Franco Leocádia Regalo (1950, Azores, Portugal) is graduated in Romance Philology and is a retired teacher. Writer and translator, she has published scientific and pedagogical works and collaborated in literary magazines, newspapers and websites. As a poet, she published her books in Portugal, Spain and Brazil. 79

ITALY MICHELA ZANARELLA-Italy CORNFLOWERS Nobody believed that in that vase could there be a world the whole love of a father that pushes color to move away distances. The blue lasts like a miracle awaken cornflowers and makes no secret of sweetness that drags light to the root. I hear, you know, that voice that crosses the border and says – I live with you the same celestial places of the dream daughter, remember that love is in everything that you may not see. ©® Michela Zanarella 80

HAIR IN THE WIND Hair in the wind against death courage still performs wonders, Mahsa and the others know it who defied the dark with a soul thirsting for freedom. The world always falls into the same deception but violence does not save, it disfigures brings disasters as fast as eternal sentences. ©® Michela Zanarella Michela Zanarella was born in Cittadella (PD) in 1980. Since 2007 she lives and works in Rome. She published 17 collections of poetry. Her poems have been translated into English, French, Arabic, Spanish, Romanian, Serbian, Greek, Portuguese, Hindi and Japanese. She won the Creativity Prize at the Naji Naaman's 2016 International Award. She is an ambassador for culture and represents Italy in Lebanon for the Naji Naaman Foundation. 81

SABRINA DE CANIO-Italy BREAD I wish I could keep all the pieces together as a stalk does its grapes, and lose neither years nor friends, nor long-cherished lovers, and keep on smelling the fragrance of my mother’s newly-washed laundry and the aroma of her warm breakfast milk. But this life is like bread that breaks into crumbs at every bite; if you put it down for a moment whoever is clearing the table will whisk it away. ©® Sabrina De Canio JOURNEY (In memory of Pippa Bacca. Italian artist Pippa Bacca, raped and killed in 2008 during her travelling performance while wearing a wedding dress was celebrating the marriage between peoples and nations). 82

White olive, pink, red, green, brown, black. White silken lily cleansing ash. We are milk in the best china sacred ant intact at each new fresh start. We are the needle that mends and the thread that binds rustling like pages in the white that turns us off. ©® Sabrina De Canio Sabrina De Canio (Piacenza, Italy) award-winning internationally-acknowledged poet, Literature teacher, translator, co-director of Saint Christopher’s Poetry Museum (and director of the international area), the only one of its kind in the world. Years spent in Africa gave rise to her underlying theme, namely, resistance to adversity. Her bilingual collection ( Italian and Serbo-Croatian language) “Libera nos a malo”( Deliver us from evil), was published in 2020, Besjeda Publisher. Recently published “Nel cuore del Silenzio (In the heart of silence), in Italian and Romanian, Editura Cosmopoli, 2023. She is founding member of Biennale Italiana di Poesia fra le Arti ( Italian Biennale of Poetry among Arts). 83

ARGENTINA ANA ULEHLA-Argentina ASSAULT It came late crawling along the skin maybe it was the darkness or the rustle of leaves dragging at the door however no wind in the tiny instant in which the insects were sliding across the body from head to toe leaving the thread hanging until the blow and the cry met ©® Ana Ulehla 84

RESTLESSNESS I am looking for places in time fading people and voices like ethereal mist that envelops the light and takes everything treasured in my memory I heard in the darkness of the night the howling of the north wind dragging tears voices and wailing what is the wind looking for inside me why is it silent when it invades me and I stay like this here where I am not ©® Ana Ulehla Ana Ulehla, 87 years old argentine teacher and writer, editor of international radio programs has published two books: \"Drifting\" and \"Deep Diving\" and her poems in anthologies of different countries, she has also more than 500 videos on YouTube, she has won the Victoria Prize in Uruguay for she spreads works by other poets, she has participated as president of the jury in the international poetry contest GALAXIA, in Writers International Foundation and has won the 2nd prize for a video poem contest in Italy, L'Anfora di Calliope. 85

INDIA SARANYA FRANCIS-India DON'T CALL ME NAMES Don't call me delicate, a fragile flower, don't call me emotional, a damsel in distress, Worse still, a temptress, a siren, seeking to oppress. Don't call me an epitome of sacrifice, Don't call me caregiver that won't suffice, Don't call me the gorgeous fairer sex, Don't subdue my femininity in male subtext Don't call me sensitive, a slave to my womb, a harpy, a creature of predictable doom, Don't call me weak, a shrinking violet, a muse, a goddess, an object to covet. For I am nothing like the sum of these half-minded parts, defined by labels or hasty arts, I am a force, a fire, a soul unbound, I'm human, I'm me, complex, profound. So don't call me by the names of old, For I refuse to fit in a box that's sold, I am woman, that's enough, enough and more, Your ill-worded noises won't muffle my roar! ©® Saranya Francis 86

WHAT IF I wondered what if we could all just accept apologies never made and met the next morning, smiled and shook hands, even hugged, like we always used to… I wondered what if we could simply distinguish between the act and the actor and continue to love despite mindless unkind acts committed in moments of haste… I wondered what if we can all not be too occupied with how much, how well, how far and how high but focus on how true instead... I wondered what if we could, by some mysterious force of nature, forget the heartbreaks, forgive the silence, forgo the egos and simply hold hands and walk the difficult mile just so the journey is easy to fulfill… I wondered what if we could simply shrink ourselves to resemble the simplest atom that all complex matter is made of and lead an uncomplicated life free of all this fuss… Just imagine… what if we could all dream that dream of WHAT IF... ©® Saranya Francis Saranya Francis is a multilingual poet, English lecturer, life skills trainer, faculty facilitator and artist. She has to her credit three published anthologies of poetry titled Being Purple, Ambedo and Sonder. She Edited Antargata (2020), Co-edited Confluence I and II, she curates the monthly poetry open mic of Bangalore Poetry Circle. She is the recipient of Star Ambassador of World Poetry at the World Poetry Conference (2019), Bharat Award for Literature (2018) and other such accolades. Saranya Francis is currently an Assistant Professor of English at ST PAULS COLLEGE, Bengaluru and a PhD scholar at Amrita Vishwa Vidyapeetham. 87

GREECE EVA LIANOU PETROPOULOU-Greece LIGHT We come crying, because we were afraid of the light... We leave with tears, because we loved this light deeply, we analyzed it, we learned it, we fell in love with it... We come alone.. We are leaving alone.. In between we have opportunities to forgive, discover our talents, stay kind, and try to become better people. ©® Eva Petropoulou Lianou 88

Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, author children literary and poet was born in Xylokastro, Greece. Initially she loved journalism and in 1994 she worked as a journalist for the French newspaper \"Le Libre Journal\" but her love for Greece won her over and she returned in 2002. He has published books and eBooks: \"Me and my other self, my shadow\" Saita publications, \"Geraldine and the Lake elf\" in English - French, as well as \"The Daughter of the Moon\", in the 4th edition, in Greek - English, Oselotos publications. Her work has been included in the Greek Encyclopedia Haris Patsis, p. 300. Her books have been approved by the Ministry of Education and Culture of Cyprus, for the Student and Teacher library. Her new books, “The Fairy of the Amazon Myrtia \"dedicated to Myrto with a disability, and\" Lefkadios Hearn, Myths and Stories of the Far East \", illustrated by Sumi-e painter Dina Anastasiadou, are released in 2019. She recently published her book,\" The Adventures of Samurai Nogas san \"in English by the publishing house , based in England. The daughter of the moon in Greek language Editor Prodigy Published The pencil.and other stories EditorProdigy Published. Collaborates with the electronic literary magazine The poet magazine. She is his partner International Literary Union based in America. Collaborates for the promotion of literature and promotes the work of Greek poets. Eva is a member of the \"Association Alia Mundi Serbia\", the \"International Society of Writers and Artists of Greece\" and the \"Piraeus Society of Letters and Arts\" as well as the Corinthian Writers Society. President of GREECE association Mille Minds of Mexico. Presidente of Greece Global UHE Peru. International Ambassador of e _magazine Namaste India. Advisor and Editor in chief Web magazine China. Advisor Member of editorial board Las Olas del Arte Magazine Belgium. Literary agent Cooperatevwith Greek site Polis magazine. 89

LEONTIOS PETMEZAS-Greece TEMPORARY WAITING FOR COINCIDENCES The waves of temporary waiting paraepidemic with admonition deepenings nostalgic but also unfulfilled in the centrifugal steps of the conflict. With pre-dawn untraveled flowering are placed continuously between in the euonymous today and in the penultimate tomorrow. The words that once brought tears in the constricted eyes they don't stunt and they don't mutilate with remonstrances of veiled curiosity the endless starry iridescences of the beyond. Nor do they indulge in long stretches of relaxation. ©® Leontios Petmezas ELEGIAC MOOD OF UNRESTRAINED CHORD In the mane of the winds with distraction the visual homogeneity of the color palette with elegiac mood of exasperation and rigid sharpness creates narrative tours that interpret the secret castles of unabashed romance. 90

With unforgettable moments of spiritual upliftment and apocalyptic ripples of blazing motion the imperative of existence excites and reconstitutes immutable the purified images of truth. The insincere background of sensuality of auburn associations with a deviation instinct commands the stripped-down shots of reflections. ©® Leontios Petmezas Leontios Petmezas studied Political Science and Public Administration at the University of Athens. Journalism at the Botsi Foundation and theater at the National Conservatory. He studied art history and painting in Greece, Europe and America. He writes books and plays. He is a speaker at cultural meetings in Greece and abroad. It deals with the research, enjoyment, appreciation and recording of timeless art. Participates in committees of literary and visual contests. His texts are published in print and electronic media. 91

ANTONIS FILIPPEOS-Greece SANCTUARY There are secrets that no one knows, dark oceans in the deepest depths of the mind that you have not discovered so far. It is the breaths that seek union with the divine, two bodies, one idea, infinite light of love. Sparkles of magic sensing the desire to break silences, to break chains, to sail into the sacred sanctum of the soul until the resonance of redemption is revealed, with a clear destiny to listen to small and great truths in your deep, troubled waters until they arise to the touch of the sun parts of the sea that flood the whole being. If the eyes are born again, if silences are broken, if secrets are revealed, 92

and hurricanes are hushed, then hearts will beat loudly like thunder, fears will be tamed like pitch black wild horses! ©® Antonis Filippeos Antonis Filippeos was born in Athens in 1980. He had been to Italy for two years for studies in the university of Rome. Returning to Greece, he completed his studies in International and European Relations in Athens and he obtained his degree in Italian Literature at university of Athens in 2012. With his inexhaustible creativity, he managed to set in the field of poetry. His first book, “Animus Nudus”(Cactus publications), was well reviewed and he won a lot of international awards. Some of his poems were set to music and translated in English, Italian and Russian. Lots of his poems have been included in various poetic anthologies and famous magazines. His promising second brand-new book “Silentium” (Cactus publications) has been recently published. 93

SPAIN JOAN JOSEP BARCELÓ-Spain UNDER YOUR SHADOW I write your name in each breath of dawn and my bleeding heart becomes transparent a trembling gloomy anguish makes me reach for the impossible where destiny does not die yet and I can be whatever I want breaking into shreds of soul through the silence that covers the morning auras of dew under your shadow the moon shines in full brilliance and I fall asleep in your womb in an eternal instant to feel a divine song of angels in a scented night in the gardens of youth far away the abysses embrace the world when the rumours of the wind steal the blood from our hearts like a miracle of light on the waves of the sea 94

I write your name in each tear of dawn and my loving heart becomes transparent ©® Joan Josep Barceló I WOULD LIKE TO BE… left in a fear chained to the shadow I would like time to erase the mediocrities between the hands of a raging fire I would like thousands of flowers to bloom in winter before the beautiful eyes of an eternal dawn I would like the trees to wake up strong in autumn sinking its roots into a blue sky I would like the ants to sing like the birds of the forest every morning on rainy days I would like the sea to invade my whole body to fill my soul with immense happiness I would like the fields to dress in thousand colours talking to the stars with whispers of love left in a fear chained to the shadow I would like to be… time… fire… winter… dawn I would like to be… autumn… the blue sky… a bird… the rain I would like to be… the sea… happiness… the field… a star I would like to be... a fear chained to the light ©® Joan Josep Barceló Joan Josep Barceló i Bauçà (Palma de Mallorca - Spain, 1953). He studied literature and science at the University of Barcelona, the Balearic Islands, Madrid and London. He has explored various fields of culture, including literature, thought and the arts, being the author of numerous books of poetry in Catalan and Italian, and having received important international awards and recognitions. He is a versatile artist-poet characterized by a surreal and abstract style, with references to a revolutionary concept that delves into philosophical and scientific criteria. 95

COLOMBIA CARLOS JULIO CORREA MOLINARES-Colombia THE GREATEST FIGHT we conquered the american west at a great cost years marked by pain and ambition but the pioneering spirit of those courageous men sustained the campaign of national progress it is the land of dreams and boundless opportunities where freedom bells chime without respite and neighbors support one another under the same sun in a prosperous pursuit we stand united from coast to coast never yielding in the pursuit of our goals forging our path with unwavering resolve and defending our symbols we exalt the nation in the victorious fields of endeavor as well as within our industrious which leave an indelible mark on all we undertake day after day ©® Carlos Julio Correa Molinares 96

MIGHTY ASTONISHED they walk together moving forward despite the disparity on their horizon without looking back the donkey and the giant forge a path into the distance in the past they conquered a somber bird challenged the mighty bear in its prime and in alliance the lion sometimes marched alongside them as they faced the unknown but now, in front of the golden and red panda they feel confusion a deep fear they have never encountered each other a new chapter in their history yet to be traced ©® Carlos Julio Correa Molinares Carlos Julio Correa Molinares is a Colombian writer who has published two novels. Recently, he won the 1st prize in the \"Intercontinental Literary Art Award - The Nine Muses - 2023 Edition\" in the category of WORLD VOICES - FOREIGN AUTHORS. Also, he was involved in the Spanish translation of the poems written by writer Glen R E Philips in 2023. His poem \"CAROLINA: A YOUTHFUL HEROINE\" was translated into Chinese as part of the International Women's Day 2023 celebration by poet Yin Xiaoyuan. His micro-story \"THE DEN\" has been selected among the top 31 writings. 97

RUTH VARGAS VIVAS-Colombia WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF? What scares you so much? you can’t look at me in the eyes, you hide your face when you walk by my side and shift the way to keep me away. Perhaps, if you walk in another’s shoes you will find they see the same colors that you watch, your ingrained fears will go away if you see with their eyes the same world from a different angle. If you want to feel with another’s hearts you will feel a rainbow of kindness and love. Why have you chosen to live in fear? if you can walk by my side. ©® Ruth Vargas Vivas 98

ODE TO RJHANNAH ! Oh Rjhannah, Rjhannah! Would you tell me who you are? A lock of hair fell on your face. An unveiled hair would bring your death Naïve woman, fatal idleness, or it was just innocent pride. The breeze whirling makes your hair dance around an unnoticed lock of hair will bring you a sorrowful finale a regretful choice that will carry sadness and crying. A lock of hair that the hiyab did not hide the wind blows on your face floating your hair, it flies around and around. ! Oh Rjhannah, Rjhannah! What was in your mind? A pure impulse, a dogged vanity. The codes would kill freedom’s dreams The norms won’t let you be different and your boundless courage has ended here. No one can change your fate, Rjhannah. But against all odds, let your hair out so that the wind can joyfully play with it. ©® Ruth Vargas Vivas Ruth Vargas Vivas was born and was raised in Bogotá, Colombia. Graduated in Political Science in 1992 and have a master’s in planning and development (2000). Worked for a non- governmental organization and as an adviser for the president of Colombia, before moved to the United States in 2002. She worked as a reported for the Salt Lake Tribune. She finished a MSW in the University of Utah (2014), and currently work doing psychotherapy assessments for the Utah courts. Her first novel was published in 2022. 99

SERBIA Dr. ANA STJELJA-Serbia ON THE FIRST DAY OF SPRING There was a tree Whose roots were so strong And branches so long That I could easily embrace them Every time I approach it On the first time of Spring. There was a flower Whose sent was so mesmerizing And petals so tender That could easily lead me to the Gardens of Eden Every time I touch it On the first day of Spring. There was a girl With a cute ponytail Who still wanders around Singing a lullaby To that beautiful tree And fragrant flower On each first day of Spring. ©® Ana Stjelja 100