Announcing that contributor Michael Steffen has a new book out, I Saw My Life.

About I Saw My Life: From the saying “I saw my life flash before my eyes”, the book’s title announces thresholds, things and moments of arrest and luminosity, resplendent, but also shocking as a near-death experience might be, and fleeting as any flash may be. The stars in their constellations at night glimpsed up through leaves of a tree, the drama of a scull tipped in a powerful mid-river current, a woven shopping handbag, such objects in their places and handling evoke the weights and sensations revisiting the body in reflective memory, at the heart of poetry’s deeply personal yet widely shared and recognized expressions.

It’s available for review from Lily Poetry Review’s press.

This month’s issue rides high on a wave, surging towards us with a theme of Fluidity.

Some contributors literally speak of water. Eva Lianou Petropoulou personifies the creatures of the sea as she calls for an end to litter and pollution. Xoʻjyozova Dildora discusses environmental damage to the Aral Sea and efforts to restore the ecosystem. Elaine Murray celebrates the wonder of the ocean, wishing to become a mermaid. Brian Barbeito recollects being stung by a jellyfish, resting, and turning out okay in time, comforted by natural and literary beauty. Later, he celebrates the seafaring-inspired writing of Joseph Conrad.

Others address different aspects of life that can feel fluid, such as light and vast open landscapes. Juan Vadillo’s review describes Beatriz Saavedra Gastélum’s poetry collection, “Lucid Breath of Light,” as a journey exploring light in its various forms, memories, and transformations. Mesfakus Salahin immerses himself into nature and creativity. Stephen Jarrell Williams’ serene piece evokes a feeling of gentle tranquility. JoyAnne O’Donnell meditates on a pleasant afternoon outside in a meadow. Sheikha A.’s short, lyrical pieces use vivid imagery and concise language to evoke a range of natural and serene scenes. Sayani Mukherjee celebrates the beauty and splendor of an outdoor festival. Yee Leonsoo’s poems use extreme natural places (a salt desert and a deep-sea sinkhole) to explore identity, memory, and the feeling of in-between-ness. Mark Young’s geographies creatively mutate random regions of Australia into works of art.

We can also perceive time as more fluid than linear. Chuck Taylor explores the idea of the “now” and how it can be captured in words, considering the brief moments between perception and recording. Barbaros İrdelmen’s pieces intertwine ordinary images with themes of love and loss to explore how human connection, memory, and longing persist within and against time’s flow. Kareem Abdullah speaks of love, longing, and memory. Mustafa Abdulmalek Al-Sumaidi reminds us that we are all mortal. Abdel Iatif Moubarak renders up a tale of a singer’s faded glory still piercing the darkness of night.

One’s personality and attitudes also morph and shift over the years. Sevara Matnazarova outlines how her personality and outlook on life changed as she grew older. Susie Gharib’s work addresses authenticity, self-expression, and a desire for a more compassionate and peaceful existence. John Grey’s work explores vulnerability and resilience within the human (and natural) experience. Elisa Mascia’s pieces draw upon changeable natural phenomena such as wind and butterflies to dramatize introspective and emotive explorations of love, loss, and transformation. Yeon Myung-ji’s poem uses the act of shelling beans as a rich metaphor for introspection, resilience, and the quiet, often overlooked, processes of life and growth. Duane Vorhees’ poems explore themes of love, identity, and transformation, often blurring the lines between reality and fantasy. Nattie O’ Sheggzy delves into the complexities of simple things and searches for meaning, beauty, and authenticity in a chaotic and often dissonant world.

A whole set of poems by Niall McGrath explore themes of memory, identity, social commentary, and personal struggle, often set against the backdrop of Northern Ireland. Poet Michael Todd Steffen, interviewed by Cristina Deptula about his new book I Saw My Life, explores the intersection of personal and historical memories, identity, and mortality, aiming to inspire reflection, acceptance, and a deeper appreciation for the world around us. Lan Xin highlights how holding space for wonder and gratitude can enhance our daily lives. Kandy Fontaine’s piece mixes theater and prose, celebrating artist Tricia Warden and the intersection of art, literature, and identity, particularly in the context of feminist and queer perspectives.  Christopher Bernard kicks off the next installment of his children’s story Otherwise, a mixture of cultural thought, suspense and middle-grade energy. Tanja Vučićević describes a personal journey, both physically and emotionally, as they navigate through challenges and seek solace and salvation.

Writing can play a part in personal reflection and development. J.J. Campbell uses poetry to process his own experiences and emotions and to comment on the human condition. Yongbo Ma’s poems are reflective and introspective, exploring themes of isolation, disconnection, and the search for meaning. Manik Chakraborty wakes us up with the graceful hope of a new morning and continues to seek artistic inspiration despite abandonment from a muse. Ryan Quinn Flanagan probes ordinary life with a poet’s eye, considering the significance of even mundane objects. Jacques Fleury uses rich imagery and references to mythology and literature to highlight the owl’s dualistic nature, embodying both positive and foreboding qualities. Ananya Guha creates a place where a moment of fear and the stories told about it later blend together into a lasting personal myth, half memory, half ghost story. High school English student Reilley Andre expresses a mature perspective on life, pointing out how different people see matters from various points of view, expressing grief, and showing gratitude for his caring sister.

Some love can remain steady amid the flow of time. Gulsanam Mamasiddiqova offers up words of respect and love for her father. Mubina Botirova expresses her love and gratitude for her mother. Tursunova Mehrinoz Oybek qizi pays respect to her mother’s dedication and kindness. Gulchiroy Axmedova expresses tender sentiments of motherly care. Afrose S. celebrates childhood and urges people to protect children. Prasanna Kumar Dalai evokes the tenderness and fragility of early love. Anwer Ghani depicts a steady, tender, and elegant love. Anindya Paul speaks to a profound and intimate romantic devotion that lingers after death. Daniela Chourio-Soto expresses nostalgia through the means of scent. Yongbo Ma’s playful work also encompasses themes of love and human romantic connection.

Of course, not all love stories end happily, and loss is a part of the human condition. Leon Drake’s poems of heavy nostalgia mourn words left unspoken and relationships left unexplored. Donna Dallas speaks of trauma, monstrosity, addiction, and toxic relationships. Kassandra Aguilera’s fragmented poem explores the intoxicating and often painful dynamics of infatuation. On a broader scale, Milena Pčinjski laments the weight of a troubled world, all that could be and all that will never be. Yet, vulnerability is not necessarily weakness, but a prerequisite for change and growth.

Love and caring can also encompass more than one’s own inner circle. Several contributors discuss the fluid state of societal and international relations and advocate for peace and justice. Alan Catlin’s work highlights the human cost of war and its echoes in art and the human soul. Abigail George’s melancholic, reflective poems mourn destruction in Gaza and a personal loss. Shlok Pandey’s fictional story is a poignant portrayal of the human experience during wartime. David Kokoette describes age-old power dynamics and struggles. Mark Wyatt’s fragmented pattern poetry calls out the atrocities made possible by unquestioning obedience to religious and political dictates. Patricia Doyne mocks Donald Trump’s pursuit of grandeur as Bill Tope presents another satirical take on Trump’s proposed arch. Staci Modisette reminds us to protect ourselves while speaking up for peace and justice. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s gentle words are set to ethereal vocals and a drifting background melody, with an encore here. Аshurоvа Dinоrа Аnvаrqul qizi outlines the role of Uzbekistan’s National Center for Human Rights.

Cultural and world history might seem static, but it can also be fluid in the sense that we remember it differently, or remember different aspects of it, over time. What and how we remember can have repercussions in the present. Lan Anh, a Vietnamese economics student in Germany, illustrates the intricate web of relationships between nations, economies, and people, highlighting the invisible boundaries that connect and impact lives in unseen ways. Muhammadyusuf Kozimjonov outlines the historical and cultural development of Uzbekistan. Joseph Ogbonna revels in the intriguing cultural and political history of the island of Corsica. Nozima Gofurova describes the cultural treasures she saw during her tour of Uzbekistan’s Center for Islamic Education. Jernail S. Anand encourages us to look to wise examples from history to create the world we would like to see.

Tasneem Hossain celebrates the richness of the world’s heritage of dance. Federico Wardal highlights an upcoming star-studded event in Rome celebrating Dante Aligheri which will be attended by cinema and theater luminaries. Yatti Sadelli reviews Dr. Bashir Issa Al-Shirawi’s poetry, highlighting his theme of the inner strength and resilience of the world’s women. Emmanuel Chimezie, Nigerian poet and founder of Poets’ Workshop (Global), interviews Egyptian poet Abdel Latif Moubarak about how life in Cairo shapes poetry, delving into themes of darkness, inequality, and identity.

Language and literature are part of world culture as well as a bridge among various cultures. Nozimova Shukrona highlights the value and importance of reading as a way to learn and participate in global thought. Jernail S. Anand urges readers to nourish our minds as well as our bodies, with a well-chosen and varied diet. Tursunaliyeva Zilolaxon celebrates the value of books, literature and libraries. Joseph Nechvatal’s review of Rus Khomutoff’s poem “Kaos Karma” examines the work as an abstract machine that combines literature and chaos magick philosophy, exploring themes of multiplicity, singularity, and the relationship between poetry and passion. Yulduz Kurbоnоvа explores how courtesies embedded in the Uzbek language can get lost in translation to other tongues. Delo Isulfi pays tribute to Rohini Kumar Behera, reflecting on his poetry, highlighting Behera’s themes of peace, gratitude, and nature, and how they convey a sense of spirituality and universality.

Education serves as a vital site where tradition and innovation meet—a place where societies negotiate fluid continuity and change. Many contributors discuss best practices for teaching language and other subjects in school. Subanova Dilafruz discusses audio aids for young language learners. Charos Mansurova discusses the phenomenon of English “loan-words” in Korean. Azimova Nilufar Egamberdiyevna compares word structures in English and Uzbek. Pardayeva Yulduz outlines methods of English-Uzbek idiom translation. Abduraufova Nilufar Khurshidjon kizi highlights the need for parents and educators to work together to teach young children. Qurbana Mubinakhon Umidjon qizi discusses how parents and educators can cooperate to inculcate national values in Uzbek children. Usmonaliyeva Bahora Abduvali qizi explores the role of idioms in Uzbek literature. Ahadova Feruzakhon looks at ways to improve student vocabulary knowledge.

Abduhalilova Sevdora Xayrulla kizi asserts the importance of physical education in school. Isakova Mukhlisa Khusanboevna illuminates exercise as a stress reliever for students. Bakhromova Gulsanam discusses the importance of inclusive education for students with disabilities and practical ways to make that happen. Abdullajanova Shahnozals’hoqxon suggests ways to help shy language students feel more comfortable speaking up in class. Dildoraxon Turgunboyeva explores how to create nurturing and educational preschool environments. Abduhalilova Sevdora offers up a polylexical analysis of English language phraseology. Turdaliyeva Mohidil Baxtiyor qizi discusses classroom activities to enhance student vocabulary. Dildoraxon Turg’unboyeva highlights the value of dictionaries in education. Ahadova Feruzakhon suggests ways to work with vocabulary when teaching young students their native language. Shahnoza Amanboyeva points to 3D modeling and artificial intelligence as tools to enhance science classrooms.

One of education’s important social functions is to prepare students to join the workforce. The global economic landscape is continually in flux, as several contributors discuss. Satimboyeva Risolat Ilhomboy qizi outlines future prospects for job growth given emerging world technologies. Azamova Feruza Abduholiq qizi suggests ways to improve the service sector of Uzbekistan’s economy.

Turning to medicine, Mamadiyorova Durdona outlines the structure and function of the human placenta. Ashurova Parizoda explores the biological characteristics of the parasite Ascaris and its effects on the human body. Xamroyeva Shaxlo discusses the process of blood formation in the human body.

For a look at a widely discussed technology, Rahmonova Barno Kilich qizi probes the economic future of our world after the growth of artificial intelligence. Nurmatova Charosxon Pirnazar qizi also explores how artificial intelligence is reshaping education and the global economy. Toshbotirov Bekjaxon Asliddin o‘g‘li outlines useful roles for AI in the classroom. O’rinboyeva Ziynatjon Anvarbek qizi points to effects of artificial intelligence on society.

Dildora Sultonova celebrates human intelligence, singing an ode to her resplendent and resilient dreams. Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Eldar Akhadov, highlighting his optimism and respect for the next generation.

A common thread in this entire issue is the persistence of human connection in the face of change. Each contributor grapples with how individuals and communities relate to each other, to history and culture, to the natural world. Smaller scale personal narratives and larger stories intertwine as overlapping dimensions of the human story. The blending of artistic forms and styles in several works evokes the complex flowing of ideas within the creative mind, a current that dissolves rigid boundaries among ideas and cultures.

The collection suggests that while much of our lives inevitably flows and shifts with the passage of time and with cultural and technological change, the underlying human impulses to connect, to understand, and to create meaning remain constant..

Good Days

Poem by Lan Xin

Internationally renowned writer, poet and translator, member of the Chinese Writers Association. The only female inheritor of UNESCO-listed Dongba Culture, International Disseminator of Dongba Culture and practitioner of Chinese culture’s global outreach. Winner of the Italian Francesco Giampietri International Literary Award, President of Lanxin Samei Academy and Dean of Yulong Wenbi Dongba Culture Academy.

What makes a day good

Some live in the perfection the world admires

Yet grow numb in ease

Forgetting how to feel

Some walk through simplicity and toil

Yet find joy in the mundane

And peace in contentment

A good day

is never defined by what you have

but lit by how your heart perceives

When gratitude dwells within

and you cherish all before you

when you love life deeply

with tenderness with contentment

with a heart that knows how to love

Then every single day

becomes a day that shines

The smells I have lost

The roads that used to be the day to day
now feel surreal,
like a dream that passed too quickly.

But I still feel under fingerprints
the old fabrics of the table and bed,
the ants waiting for bread crumbs,
and the smell of coffee in the morning.
I miss it, a little,
The soft touch of your face
and its warm comfort.

“But only a little” says my mind,
which barely remembers
the burning sun,
the cold esmerald floor
and white ceiling.

“Feel it again” says my heart desperately,
which only felt
the easy warmth,
the heat of a hug,

and a lost voice.

“I miss everything” says my nose,
to which everything
seems new
and distant:
the roads,
the coffee,
the fabrics,
and your scent.

Stephen Miller Dishes the Dirt on the Controversial New Trump Arch

On Friday, deputy White House chief of staff Stephen Miller met with reporters to give the low down on the proposed Donald J. Trump Independence Arch. Comparisons with the world famous Arc de Triomphe, in Paris, have led to designating the new arch as the Arc de Trump.

Miller drew parallels between the French arch and the Trump Monument. To begin with, the Arc de Triomphe was conceived in 1806, after the victory at Austerlitz by Emperor Napoleon at the peak of his fortunes.

Trump’s arch will mark a victory as well, said Miller. “It will celebrate The Dear Leader’s victory over the goddamned Democrat Party,” shouted Miller, interviewed at the construction site of the proposed monument, on a Washington roundabout across from the Lincoln Memorial.

Asked if the design had been finalized, Miller grew cagey and said that the “final dimensions could change at any moment.” Although the proposed Arc de Trump, at 250 feet, is almost 90 feet taller than the Arc de Triomphe, Miller called attention to the Gateway Arch, built in the mid-1960s.

Originally known as the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial and erected along the Mississippi River in St. Louis, Missouri, it was built to mark the expedition of Lewis & Clark in 1804.

“The St. Louis Arch,” snarled Miller, grinding his teeth, “is effin’ 630 feet tall and somehow it doesn’t seem right that the president’s arch should be smaller. I mean, who the hell were Lewis & Clark and Thomas Jefferson anyway?”

Miller said he has become quite an expert on arches over the past year that consideration has been given to the project. He explained that the Paris arch is a typical triumphal arch, which is a monumental, free-standing archway. It often spans a road. It’s origins date to ancient Roman architecture.

The Gateway Arch, in St. Louis, Miller explained, is built in the form of a weighted catenary arch. It is the world’s tallest arch, a fact which does not sit well with Miller. Miller has chosen a different template for the Arc de Trump.

“Our arch,” boasted Miller, “will be modeled after the Golden Arches in the McDonald’s restaurant logo. While McDonald’s dropped the physical arches from nearly all of its restaurants many years ago, the Golden Arches have remained in the logo, and as a commonly understood term for the company.”

President Trump has a well known fondness for McDonald’s sandwiches. Miller went into greater detail about the origins of McDonald’s arches. “The McDonald’s logo was established in the 1960s on advice from psychologist Louis Cheskin.

“Cheskin likened the arches to ‘mother McDonald’s breasts,’ invoking Freudian elements for consumers. President Trump is very much into female breasts,” declared Miller proudly.

And whereas the Arc de Triompe is composed of limestone, and  the St. Louis Arch is made from stainless steel, here again Trump opts to be different. “The Arc de Trump,” said Miller, “will be made of gold.”

He hastened to add that it would not be gold through and through, but rather, gold-plated. If the final version of the Arc de Trump is in fact equal in size to the Gateway Arch, then it will require some 3,840 pounds of pure gold.

And with gold running to $29,560 per pound, this means that gold-plating the arch will cost $1.13 billion and change. “It will all be paid for by GOP donors,” Miller hastened to add, “so it won’t cost the American citizens a penny.” Miller was asked if possible vandalism of the gold-plated monument was a concern.

“Got it covered,” snapped Miller, pausing to point and laugh at a stray dog that was run over by an ICE vehicle on Memorial Drive. Miller immediately came back to Earth, describing in detail the turrets which will be appended to the arch. “Sharpshooters will take care of any mischief makers,” he said soberly.

As the press event began to wind down, Miller noted that the Arc de Triomphe has a staircase extending to the top of the French monument. “There are 284 steps leading upwards,” said Miller, who went on to say that the Arc de Triomphe would have not stairs, but a golden escalator to the top. “First class all the way,” boasted the Reichsfuhrer, crushing an anthill under his jackboot.

I WANDERED – Tanja Vučićević, Serbia 

I set out with my heart, slowly toward the west.

I paused — I survived a heavy attack.

Where to go next: north or south?

I see no path! I am lost in an enchanted circle.

I am breaking, while my soul plows on like a field.

I ask myself: “Why does the roar of life torment me?”

I turn around and cast my gaze toward the east;

and I pray not to lose my way again.

The night is deaf! In the east I await my salvation;

I hear, I feel — the voice of God is calling me.

Small Girl Big Devil

As quiet as I was 

your silence devoured me

I was spit into bits 

fed to pigeons

given a lollipop for this cross 

and left on someone’s door

who didn’t like children

so I became a woman

overnight 

in a back alley 

and you looked at your work 

said thy will be done

and fell into deep slumber 

as I crawled away in shame 

Monsters are made 

not born 

there’s still a monster under my bed 

I hear it deep within the empty night 

when dreams play tricks 

and lovers stop 

loving 

The morning so futile 

where I attempt to redeem 

us 

under the blood sun that rises 

over the arch of our terrace 

that hasn’t been used in decades 

and never will 

Since the city has climaxed 

we are spent within her

Alive 

but dead with guilt 

and old with fear 

Yet 

we sit together

numbly silent 

as a tomb

In Poison We Began

Your breath a siphon

of everything me

those late nights 

we plodded through our deadlands 

as vacant as the wind 

your lips a poison 

never matched 

(and we choose our poisons delicately)

Some burst of cosmic gases

from an unnamed planet 

as it flew apart 

fused us 

there isn’t a fiber 

between our skin 

our poison combined 

threaten

all the surroundings 

When I slink out 

from our skin 

I witness us

white and wrinkled 

posed as humans 

we glow toxic blue

in the moonlight 

We fold back

into each other’s poison

scrimmage until the moon

dies 

because we can’t ever 

leave pure things alone 

Sweet Darlings

There was something off

in my mother 

I’m sure I realized this at a young age

We salt our own wounds

to go back and revisit in some nostalgic way 

never does any good 

There’s a heroic bend to events 

we escaped from 

or got out of unscathed 

but it is bent and strange 

hope can be quiet rage in youth…..in the meek 

There are outliers for reasons 

back then I skirted darkness 

it was so natural 

to turn into those monsters 

the same ones I was born to

and some of us morph 

to become a hybrid 

pulling some old dark legacy 

along with a new creeping addiction

I don’t have to call up the dead

to ensure I’m awake nights 

I’ve been awake for decades 

fearing some floating stigma 

that will get me 

at some future point 

If there’s something off in me

the root goes deep 

my road went dark aways ago

I cry forward 

Kitty

The wind ever so lightly rustles the trees

there’s an egg in the blue jay’s nest

Kitty lights a Newport

blows that mint smoke straight into

the fresh morning air

we sit

sludgy and bent

ogle the simple shit

as if life never existed before

the blue egg

before martyrdom

Christ

dinosaurs

it’s all new today

cuz we heeled she says

Kitty coughs

deep and chunky

phlegm flows

over her lips

she wipes her mouth with a tissue

her potbelly ever so round

tits sag down 

while gravity sucks at her nipples

I light a Marlboro

nothin left to fear

that ain’t already spooked us

the egg

divine and speckly

imperfect

yet so pure

can’t take my eyes off it

almost the color 

of a Tiffany giftbox

Kitty grunts

asks who Tiffany is

I just want the egg to open at its time

without a hungry predator lurking

I want that baby blue jay for my own

some dormant motherhood beam

creeks in my dead womb

as if to ask

what happened to the many eggs

I’ve scrambled at the predator’s foaming jowls

A singular cry from the momma blue jay

the mother’s moan 

dates back to Mary

some invisible clock

that stops a heart

when necessary

as written in the Torah 

and we’ll come to it

Hole (For M.M.)

Your Frankenstein chariot

pieced together

from many dead Harleys

The rides to the beach

salt air sprayed us

from both sides of the bridge

and it was a freedom so epic

it engulfed us

Glittered eyelids

black leather

lust like dogs

hunger eats like a hole

we ain’t filling in this life

The bike on the boardwalk

us

staring into a future

we were unable to feed

sucking at the pure moment 

of innocence and death

too naive to know the difference

Boardwalk now is cracked

ripped and busted up

from the many storms 

I walk it alone from time to time

hungry to get to the point

That tipping point

when you and I meet 

as ghosts

Abdel latif Moubarak
Egypt

“Layla the Nightingale” did not walk on the ground; she floated on red carpets that stretched from Cairo to the capitals of mist and beauty. On those nights, the Grand Opera House would tremble before she even stepped on stage. The scent of luxury incense mingled with her French perfume, a fragrance crafted exclusively for her.

When she raised her hand, thousands fell silent. When she sang, that silence became sacred. The headlines read: “Layla, the Woman Who Stole the Throat of Angels.” She never imagined that this applause, which sounded like winter thunder, could ever fade.
It began with a simple rasp, which doctors dismissed as exhaustion. But Layla knew something was breaking inside. The hoarseness wasn’t just in her voice; it was in her soul. A “young producer” arrived with loud, rhythmic beats, and the public’s taste began to shift.

She told her manager coldly, “The audience doesn’t betray, darling; they are just being temperamental.” But when she stood for her final grand concert, she saw empty seats in the back rows. Those seats looked like black holes waiting to swallow her history whole.
Events accelerated like falling dominoes. A failed marriage to a businessman stripped her of half her fortune before he vanished. Tax cases piled up like dust on her old crowns. She was forced to sell her villa in Zamalek, then her Mercedes—the car the city streets knew by heart.

She moved to a small apartment in a crowded neighborhood, keeping her silk dresses in battered leather suitcases. She still wore bright red lipstick when she opened the door for the electricity collectors, as if she were receiving a press delegation.
The turning point came at a second-rate nightclub where she was forced to sing to pay her rent. She stood under a flickering neon light. She tried to reach that high note that used to shake hearts, but what came out was a strangled, wounded cry—the sound of a dying bird.
A drunkard in the hall laughed and shouted, “Give it up, lady! Your time is over!” The microphone fell from her hand, and there was no one there to catch it.

Two years passed. The phone stopped ringing. The friends who used to crowd her dressing room were suddenly struck by a collective amnesia. Resources dried up, and she was evicted from her apartment.
She walked out with a single suitcase containing one dress encrusted with fake crystals and a few black-and-white photographs showing kings and presidents applauding a woman who looked like her, but whom she no longer recognized.

The street has no mercy for those accustomed to silk carpets. On her first night under the Qasr al-Nil Bridge, she watched the Nile—the river she once sang to as the “Source of Goodness.” Now, the Nile looked like a black beast lurking for the lonely.
She lay on a piece of cardboard and covered her face with an old shawl. She didn’t sleep; she listened to the footsteps of passersby, terrified someone might recognize her… and even more terrified that no one would.

As the months went by, Layla’s features changed. Gray invaded the hair that once shone like a summer night, and the hands that were once kissed in high society became cracked and rough. She became “the crazy woman” who sat by the metro station.
She would sing in a very low voice—indistinct humming. People would drop coins in her lap out of pity for a “beggar,” never realizing that the hand taking the spare change was the same one that had received the highest medals of art.
One day, a luxury car pulled up in front of her. A young singer stepped out—the current “Number One” star. He wore sunglasses to hide his face. He placed a large banknote in her hand without looking at her.

Layla looked at his face and remembered him as a child who was once in her musical troupe. She wanted to call his name, to say, “It’s me, Layla, my son,” but her tongue had grown used to silence, and the pride remaining in her ashes held her back.
On a bitterly cold winter night, Layla felt the curtain was about to fall. She couldn’t feel her limbs, but her throat suddenly regained its old purity. She stood in the middle of the empty street at midnight.

She began to sing her most beautiful song, “Farewell to My Dreams.” Her voice echoed through the alleys of Downtown, powerful and resonant, as if she were back at the Opera. Residents opened their windows in amazement: “Who is this angelic voice in the dead of night?” But Layla wasn’t singing for the living; she was singing for the sky.
In the morning, they found an old woman lying peacefully on the pavement. She was smiling, holding a faded old photograph of a woman glowing under the spotlights.

No one knew who she was. She was taken away in an ambulance as an “unidentified body.” That evening, a radio in a nearby café played her famous song: “I am the one who never dies… I remain in your hearts,” while her body was being laid to rest in a pauper’s grave—far from the lights, and very close to the truth.

—