𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 – 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

PRISM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

We are thrilled to announce a call for submissions for the poetry anthology Prism of Consciousness. This anthology will accompany the upcoming VI INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF THE CAESURAE COLLECTIVE SOCIETY, jointly organised by the Centre for Indian Arts and Cultural Studies (CIACS), Cooch Behar Panchanan Barma University, Department of English, Cooch Behar College (affiliated to the university), and Caesurae Collective Society in collaboration with Sri Vishnu Mohan Foundation, Chennai. The conference will be held from 9–11 April 2025 at Cooch Behar, the erstwhile princely state in West Bengal, India. 

The anthology seeks to weave a fabric of poetic expressions that resonate with the theme of consciousness—exploring the mind, the self, and the infinite cosmos—weaving together poetic voices that reflect on what it means to be aware, alive, and interconnected. 

INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF THE CAESURAE COLLECTIVE SOCIETY

Date     : 9, 10, & 11 April 2025

Venue  : Cooch Behar College

Place    : Cooch Behar, the erstwhile princely state in West Bengal, India

THEME

Prism of consciousness—a profound interaction of thought, emotion, and awareness that shapes our experience of reality. We invite poets to explore this theme in all its dimensions:

A THOUGHT TO EXPLORE

   Mind and Self: Reflections on identity, awareness, and the inner workings of thought.

   Interconnectedness: The interplay between individual consciousness and the external world, including nature, society, and the cosmos.

   Altered States: Dreams, meditations, mystical experiences, and other states of awareness.

   Cultural Perspectives: Diverse interpretations of consciousness across traditions, philosophies, and spiritual practices.

   The Future of Consciousness: Technological influences, artificial intelligence, and the evolution of awareness.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

1. Eligibility: Open to poets worldwide. Submissions in English are preferred. 

2. Submission Limit: Up to three poems per person; one poem will be selected.

3. Format: Submissions must be in a single Word document, with each poem on a separate page. A high-resolution headshot photograph (JPEG format) is required.

4. Length: Individual poems should not exceed 37 lines. The bio should be a succinct biographical narrative of up to 111 words, written in the third person. 

5. Originality: Submissions must be original and unpublished works. We kindly request that you refrain from simultaneous submissions and choose to share your work exclusively with our anthology.

6. Declaration: Include a cover letter affirming that your submitted work is entirely your own and has not been published elsewhere.

7. Personal Information – Provide the following details in the body of your email: full name, postal address with landmark, email address, and mobile number.

SUBMISSION CONTENT

Your submission must include the following:

1. Poem(s)   

2. Bio

3. Photo 

4. Declaration

5. Personal Information

IMPORTANT 

1. Submissions will only be considered for selection once all five required items are provided as per the guidelines. 

2. The decisions of our selection process are final and irrevocable. 

SUBMISSION DETAILS

Deadline: 10th February 2025

Email: Orbindo.ganga@gmail.com

Subject Line: “Submission: Prism of Consciousness Anthology”

AVAILABILITY OF COPIES

1. For Co-authors: 

    Co-author may purchase copies at a discounted rate before publication. 

2. Paperback Price: 

    Market Price: Rs 600/- (for international authors: $60/-) plus delivery charges after publication.

Discounted Rate for Co-authors: Rs 480/- (for international authors: $45/-), including delivery charges before publication.

BOOK LAUNCH, POETRY READING, AND DISCUSSIONS

The book will be launched during the conference in Cooch Behar (West Bengal), with featured poets invited to participate in a special poetry reading session and discussions. 

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 @ 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐜𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐫

   Please note that the poetry reading session and discussion will include participants whose work has been selected for the anthology Prism of Consciousness.

  If your poem has been selected and you wish to participate in the conference at Cooch Behar, kindly email us. We will send you the registration form.

FOR REGISTRATION

Same as the conference email.

REGISTRATION FEE

Same as the conference registration fee.

Registration will close on 22nd February 2025. 

Join us in creating a poetic philharmonic that resonates across minds, hearts, and worlds.

For poetry anthology inquiries-

CONTACT

Email: orbindo.ganga@gmail.com

Whatsapp: + 91 9895290371

******************************************************************************************

ABOUT THE CONFERENCE

The conference is an interdisciplinary gathering of thinkers, researchers, philosophers, and artists, united in the pursuit of unraveling the mysteries of consciousness. It will feature academic sessions, poetry readings and discussions, book launches, music workshops, an exhibition based on the theme, lecture demonstrations, and cultural events. By linking this anthology to the conference, we aim to celebrate the poetic voice as an essential element in exploring human awareness.

The conference Paradigms of Consciousness and Its Cultural and Aesthetic Expressions seeks to investigate the diverse ways in which consciousness and spirituality are understood, experienced, and articulated across disciplines and cultures. Consciousness, as a complex and multifaceted phenomenon, transcends disciplinary boundaries, integrating philosophical, artistic, scientific, cultural and psychological perspectives. This conference offers a platform to explore these intersections, delving into the deep connections between the mind, self, and the world, as expressed through various cultural and aesthetic forms.

Selected papers will be published in a volume by an international publisher and in our ejournal: Caesurae: Poetics of Cultural Translation (ISSN 2454-9495)

  Please send your Abstracts in about 500 words to conferencecaesurae2025@gmail.com.

  Deadline: 20 February 2025

  Acceptance of Abstracts by 26 February 2025

  Registration process should be completed within 7 days of acceptance of Abstracts

  Registration Fees – Rs 2000 for participants in India and 25 $ for overseas participants + Caesurae Membership Fee – Annual (Rs 500 / $6 for overseas participants) / Life (Rs 5000/ $ 60 for overseas participants).

  Accommodation (On request) for twin sharing rooms: Rs 3500

(Registration fees will cover access to the plenaries and panels of the Conference, including the musical, literary and Zoom sessions of the international speakers, as well as a Participation Certificate. A working lunch will be provided and a conference kit.)

** It is mandatory to take Caesurae membership for participating in our conferences. If you are a Life Member you must only pay the Registration Fee. If you are an Annual Member and have not renewed your membership you either you become a Life Member or take an Annual Membership. 

  How to pay Registration fee and Membership fee?

Once we accept your abstract, we will send you our Bank details and a Google Form link. 

✓  For Registration and Caesurae Annual Membership: Rs 2500/-

✓  For Registration and Caesurae Life Membership: Rs 7000/-

✓  For Registration + Annual Membership + Accommodation: Rs 6000/-

✓  For Registration + Life Membership + Accommodation: Rs 10,500/-

CONFERENCE REGISTRATION FEE

Indian participants      –  ₹ 2500

Overseas participants  – $ 31 

CONTACT:

Email: conferencecaesurae2025@gmail.com

Whatsapp: + 91 8017147503

******************************************************************************************

Kind regards,

Orbindu Ganga 

Chief Editor 

PRISM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 

&

Member, Editorial Board

Caesurae Journal

Yahoo Mail: Αναζητήστε, οργανωθείτε, πετύχετε

Beginnings

The day began simply enough,

cigarette in hand, bitter black

coffee, wadded up tactile pubs,

two tablet devices after I was

jettisoned from the warm

welcome bed. You were there

too, sipping your herbal tea,

glancing about for an early

tin of biscuits. You wanted to

debate the meaning of [our]

existence (as though there may

be any), but I couldn’t at that

moment for so many reasons

never to be understood. Still,

outside the birds sang – no,

warbled – to each other and

we as audience –  words of

great wisdom in clouds of

the finest smoke. A mob of

blue jays descended on

a hapless bird feeder and

the light started to resemble

glistening peaches and cream.

If there are lessons to be

learned here and gauntlets

left to run, if you

become

attain

maintain

retain

remain

ARE

holy, the seeds will be taken

right from your hands.

Drive – III

In order to be with her,

I’d fly from L.A. to Dallas,

high over endless desert,

blue skies blinding,

releasing, then blinding

once more.

In order to be with her,

I’d fly, over and over again,

to Nevada, Georgia, Ontario,

Wisconsin, Oregon, Maine

and New Hampshire

over and over again,

each time holding my

breath as though with

that simple motion, I

could again feel love. Or

just feel … something.

That’s been gone,

was jettisoned,

and replacing it

was my burden, my

challenge. How to

go on, what choices,

where the journey,

so with few answers

I drove on, hugged

the earth, traversed

new realities,

sought new meaning,

any meaning, some

purpose Sartre would

approve of while driving

here and yonder past

husky cornfields and

viscous pastures,

past city skyscrapers,

through college towns

and onto university

campuses, toward

federal labs, national

parks, art galleries,

cathedrals and casinos.

 I drove at

• Albuquerque
• Boulder
• Tucson
• Pittsburgh
• Athens
• Sedona
• Chattanooga
• Syracuse
• Cincinnati
• Reno
• Gatlinburg
• Asheville
• Baltimore
• Berkeley
• Charlotte

and more places

than any other list

could ever hold,

in order to

locate

find

search

learn

grow

know

live

finally be

at one

with myself

in my selves

as myself.

Lamenting

Bulbous clouds stream by

the scarred window. What

happened down there?

Did shiny political rhetoric

slide down your legs again?  

How hearts are broken,

the many different ways.

You cried out in your sleep

again last night, steel toe

boots dancing through your

head, reaching for me.

It’s raining now and no

one cares. But after this,

does it really matter?

Palmetto trees stand

guard outside. He died

last night, actually 6:25

AM today. Did you hear

the gunshot? Loud as

hell, really echoed. Did

you hear her screaming

his name? She knew and

couldn’t do anything.

You didn’t hear? I’m

glad you could sleep.

Some might have felt

a little guilty having

gone down there with

that note. But I don’t

question that. I just

wonder will you cry?

Will You?

Dog Paradox Equation

Two dogs ran in front of the SUV ahead and the lab took it viciously to its side at 50 MPH. There was an ugly thud and then the dog’s hideous screaming. The SUV stopped hard while the lab struggled to right itself, side ripped open, intestines pouring out. That driver then went unthinkable, cluelessly backing up over the dog as I honked and honked. Right then I wanted to kill that driver. ‘Cept it could have been me or anyone and I knew it.

The slashed-up dog dragged itself to the side of the road and tried to throw itself into the bushes. Why’d I’d leave my snub-nose home? The dog wouldn’t recover, wouldn’t live. I didn’t want it to suffer, but what to do? If I went back, grabbed my piece and ended things, I’d be “saving” the dog but what trouble awaited if anyone misunderstood? Nix legal troubles! But if I drove off, how long would it suffer? If I tried to forget things, I’d be a bastard and even more tortured. But doing nothing? Frozen there stuck in a dog paradox equation.

I decided to…

No, instead I called Sandi and cried like a goddamned baby.

Scott C. Holstad has authored 60+ books & has appeared in the Minnesota Review, Exquisite Corpse, Pacific Review, Long Shot, Wormwood Review, Chiron Review, Santa Clara Review, Southern Review, Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Kerouac Connection, Processed World, Dream International Quarterly, Sivullinen, Nidergasse, Gangan Verlag, Ginosko Literary Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Hidden Peak Press, Mad Swirl, Bristol Noir, PULP & Poetry Ireland Review. He holds degrees from the University of Tennessee, California State University Long Beach, UCLA & Queens University of Charlotte. He’s moved 35+ times & currently lives near Gettysburg PA. 

https://hankrules2011.com.

X: @tangledscott 

Unforgettable Moments of Our Final Year

Time flies at an incredible speed. It feels like just yesterday we stepped into university as curious, playful freshmen, struggling to navigate the academic system. And now, before we even realized it, we are in our final year—some of us already married, some even parents, all of us grown into mature individuals. Over the past four years, we have experienced countless challenges and milestones, but today, I want to share the most memorable part of this journey—our final-year internship.

At our university, we are privileged to learn from some of the finest professors, and this extends to our practical training as well. We were fortunate to be mentored by outstanding experts, particularly during our internship at the historical Registan complex. Under the guidance of our supervisor, G. Sirocheva, an experienced and knowledgeable tour guide, we gained invaluable insights into the art of guiding tourists. She spared no effort in sharing her expertise, encouraging us to develop our translation and guiding skills through hands-on practice with both local and foreign visitors.

Samarqand, a city with a rich historical legacy, continues to mesmerize the world with its stunning architectural wonders and centuries-old monuments. Studying its cultural heritage is not only fascinating but also a great responsibility. As aspiring translators and guides, sharing this wealth of knowledge with visitors brings us immense pride.

For any guest visiting Samarqand, exploring its ancient landmarks is very pleased. The city’s blue-domed minarets, the grandeur of the Timurid era, and its well-preserved historical essence create an atmosphere that transports visitors to another time. Registan Square, once the heart of the city’s bustling marketplace, remains the primary attraction for tourists. Stepping onto this historic site, one cannot help but feel the lingering presence of the Timur era’s splendor.

As translation and interpretation students, our internship was structured to balance both practical fieldwork and academic translation exercises. We spent three days a week at historical sites, honing our guiding skills, while the remaining days were dedicated to translating various texts, including official documents and literary works.

One of the most exciting projects assigned to our group was preparing English subtitles for the Uzbek film O‘tgan Kunlar (Bygone Days). Under the guidance of our mentor, F. Bakiyev, we delved deep into the complexities of literary translation. We explored techniques for adapting idiomatic expressions, proverbs, and figurative language while ensuring cultural and linguistic accuracy. Additionally, we learned about modern subtitling platforms and tools, further expanding our skill set in audiovisual translation.

Looking back, this year has been one of the most enriching experiences of our academic journey. It rovided us with invaluable opportunities to apply our theoretical knowledge in real-world settings and take a significant step forward in our professional development. The dedication of our professors, the time and effort invested in our education, and the doors being opened for us as young professionals all serve as a reminder that we must continue striving for excellence.

As we stand on the brink of graduation, we are more determined than ever to make the most of the opportunities ahead, honoring the hard work of our mentors and making a meaningful contribution to our field.

2123 group of final-year students,

Faculty of English Philology and Translation Studies

Samarkand State Institute of Foreign Languages

Two on the Wall

The Torn Hat painting

By Tom Sully was one

Of two that hung

On a Federal Housing

Wall where we lived

Never made me want

To own such a lid

But I might have wished

I’d been as good

Looking or as brave

As that kid with the rosy

Cheeks that might have

Been badges of courage

From a bully skirmish

Chapeau snatched

And ripped in retrieval –

Years after my brother’s

Suicide I began to gaze

Back and find him in that

Memory frame but never

Coaxed smile or smirk

Light of the World-Child

Jesus was the companion

Skinny gold halo and God

Awful ragged and painful

Looking seaweed hair

A shoulder turned as if

Awaiting a polio shot

He died for our sins so

They say so ergo no need

For my brother to have

Taken his so seriously

Any critic art or otherwise

Would agree don’t you think

Store-Bought

The pipe-smoking professor

lobbed quickly a question or two

at the Shakespeare Intro class

before settling at his throne.

Not a hand signaling interest

or answer fecund or fallow,

he bolted in disgust leaving

a striking  tobacco trail

and I recalled the tall student

sitting in front  of me tall, Jesus

looking or at least

a disciple, long hair but no beard

a mere goatee—could be a character

from Midsummer, the comedy at hand—

who three days past picked apart

a drug angle namely Puck’s

narcotic plucking that had proven

a tad much for the professor

who broke in, citing a need

to inhale something more

potent than store-bought

in order to follow.

Wondering what wafted from clay

pipes at the Boar’s Head Inn,

perfuming the hair of wenches

I eyed the beauty second seat, first row

and imagined my face lost in her forest

of raven locks and at her request

deeply inhaling to separate

the store-bought

from whatever mystical elixir

she’d used in her morning shower.

The Libretto

Just a short stretch

Of wall between Bill Butler

Chase’s Wounded Poacher 

And Seymour Guy’s At the Opera 

The fugitive is all the worse

For the wear, gaunt, grimy

Bandage-headed yet

His exquisite mustache

Is oddly hale as if

Smoothed for the posing

Guy’s lovely young

Woman, sophisticated

No doubt and oh so fragile

A slim red band holds

Her taut hairdo in place

What’s occurring on stage

Prompts removal of her

Opera glasses or are those

Smartly gloved fingers

Lifting them to better peek

At a man of interest

As Madame Bovary did

From her Rouen box

How would she react to the poacher

His rifle aimed, they won’t take me

Alive written in caps all over his face

Give up the three strands of pearls

Give up the fur he’d kill to caress

Allow him to touch her thin lips

Small ears, perfect nose and skin

As fair as tissue under a pelt

Of a creature freshly peeled

A Beach and Boardwalk Poem

A couple of teens surf like novices

A kid in a sandbox scans them

But keeps his windblown focus

On a small bulldozer shifting sand

Does he long for the day he might fill

That vehicle seat, ditch the shovel and pail

A couple of loud F-15s fly over, another dream

Along with an aircraft carrier his mom points out

Near the jetty a trio of men and one woman fish

A boat rigged to tow hang gliders exits the inlet

A young woman in a bikini powering inline

Skates, pushes off with fingers entwined

Confidently behind her back

A yellow lab carrying an ultra-bright tennis ball

Pulls ahead and drops the toy

She squats to snag, passes it back

And speeds off six wheels singing

Her arms wagging like happy dog tails

Fame Found 

She was snatched off a branch

Of our family tree, a very distant

Cousin, mistress, of both Jim

Whistler and Gus Courbet

My grandparents never would

Have shared that tidbit

Irish Catholic reins you know

So kudos and gratitude

To the arborist who released

Joanna into our custody

How stately, simply gorgeous

Standing tall on a bearskin rug

The head intact and it’s smiling

In Jim’s Symphony in White 

Her red hair a wimple

The white of her dress and

The pale of the curtain behind

Equal at least two wedding gowns

In Gus’s, Jo La Belle Irlandaise she is

Fingering her locks, examining

Her face in a hand held looking glass

Maybe concerned her beauty is fading

How many women sharing boughs

On our ancestral timber appraise

Their reflections hoping to find

A tad of her handed down

Count the men who have ogled

A forest of barroom faces

AWOL

I’m homeless and walking

At midnight in Central Park

It is winter and I’m wearing

My first Navy Issue pea coat

Stolen when left on my rack

To use the head the day

I was leaving for a new ship

I bought a used one in Newport

But this is the original I’m sure of it

Don’t ask me why this certainty

I can’t place the rest of my clothing

I have a fountain pen in one pocket

And half a lemon poppy seed

Muffin in the other

That I pick at

There are no flowers

In this dream no opium

But seeds get stuck

In my teeth that I move

To my tongue with my pen

Tip then swallow

And taste punctuation

Ending sentences

Confining me

To a brig

Peace

Prayers for a peaceful world

I dreamt about it

I closed my eyes years ago

I saw children playing with dolls

I keep my eyes closed

I am afraid to open them

Because when i opened my eyes, dead bodies exist everywhere

No schools

No home

No toys

I keep my eyes closed

I live peacefully

Eva Petropoulou Lianou 

Critical Appreciation: “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” by Eva Petropoulou Lianou

In the realm of contemporary poetry, Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” stands as a powerful and poignant masterpiece that pierces the heart and soul of humanity. This poem is a profound exploration of the human experience, delving into the complexities of war, violence, and the longing for peace.

The poem’s central theme of the speaker’s dream of a peaceful world is a powerful metaphor for the universal human aspiration for harmony and tranquility. Lianou’s lines, “I dreamt about it / I closed my eyes years ago / I saw children playing with dolls,” create a vivid image of a world where innocence and joy reign supreme. However, the speaker’s reluctance to open their eyes, “Because when I opened my eyes, / dead bodies exist everywhere,” is a heart-wrenching reminder of the harsh realities of war and violence.

One of the most impressive aspects of this poem is its use of imagery and symbolism. The image of children playing with dolls is a particularly striking one, highlighting the ways in which war and violence destroy the innocence and joy of childhood. The contrast between the peaceful world of the speaker’s dream and the harsh reality of war is also noteworthy, underscoring the ways in which violence can shatter our hopes and dreams.

The poem’s themes of peace, war, and the human condition are equally compelling. Lianou’s lines, “No schools / No home / No toys,” speak to the ways in which war and violence can destroy the very fabric of our lives, leaving us without the basic necessities of human existence. The speaker’s decision to keep their eyes closed, “I keep my eyes closed / I leave peacefully,” is a poignant reminder of the ways in which we often try to escape the harsh realities of the world around us.

Throughout the poem, Lianou’s voice is characterized by its lyricism, depth, and emotional resonance. The poem’s message is both timely and timeless, speaking to the universal human aspirations for peace, harmony, and tranquility that transcend borders, cultures, and generations.

In conclusion, “Peace, Prayers for a Peaceful World” is a masterpiece of contemporary poetry that deserves to be widely read and studied. Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s poem is a powerful exploration of the human experience, peace, war, and the longing for a better world, and its themes of hope, resilience, and the human condition will resonate with readers long after they finish reading.

India  BHARAT

January 24, 2025

Dr Ashok Kumar from Baraut BAGHPAT UP INDIA BHARAT

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Taghrid Boumerhi
Poet
Translator
Journalist
Lebanon
Brasil




Θέμα: Poem Written Y translation by TAGHRID BOU MERHI

"BETWEEN SILENCE AND NOTHINGNESS" 
Poem in Arabic language written and translated into English, Italiano, Spanish, French and Portuguese by poet and Translator TAGHRID BOU MERHI 

بين الصمت والعدم

في البدءِ، كانتِ الكلماتُ تُخلقُ من الرماد، ثمَّ تتلاشى في الفراغِ كأنّها لم تكن.
كنتُ أحاولُ أن أسمعَ صوتَ الظلِّ وهوَ ينسحبُ من الجدار، لكنَّ الجدارَ لم يكنْ هناك.
كنتُ أبحثُ عن يدٍ تمسكُ بالزمنِ، فأمسكتُ بريحٍ خفيفةٍ تسرّبتْ من بينِ أصابعي.
ثمَّ أدركتُ أنَّ الفراغَ يزدادُ امتلاءً كلّما حاولتُ قياسَهُ،
وأنَّ العدمَ يُمسكُ بالعالمِ مثلَ قصيدةٍ لم تكتملْ.

تُرى، هل كانَ الإنسانُ فكرةً تأخّرتْ عن الوصول؟
هل كانَ ظلَّ احتمالٍ نسيَ أنْ يعودَ إلى جسده؟
كنتُ أراقبُ الوقتَ وهوَ يسيلُ على طاولةٍ من زجاج،
كانَ الزمنُ يذوبُ ببطءٍ، يتركُ أثرَهُ على الأصابعِ ثمَّ يختفي،
لكنَّ أحداً لم يلاحظْ أنَّ الطاولةَ كانتْ تصدأُ من الداخل.

في الخارجِ، كانَ الصمتُ يملأُ الأزقّةَ مثلَ دخانٍ باردٍ،
والأبوابُ تُفتحُ على نفسها دونَ أن يدخلَ أحدٌ أو يخرجَ.
الأرصفةُ تنتظرُ خطواتٍ لم تأتِ،
والأشجارُ تحاولُ أن تُقنعَ العابرينَ أنّها لا تزالُ تتنفّسُ.

هل ثمّةَ بابٌ للخروجِ من هذهِ الدائرة؟
ربّما البابُ ليسَ في الجدار،
ربّما البابُ ليسَ باباً، بل فكرةٌ تنزلقُ في الظلامِ ثمَّ تنحلُّ في الهواء.
لكن، كيفَ يخرجُ المرءُ من شيءٍ لا يدركُ حدوده؟
كيفَ يعبرُ إلى الضفّةِ الأخرى دونَ أنْ يعرفَ إنْ كانتْ هناكَ ضفّةٌ أخرى؟

كنتُ أفكّرُ في هذا حينَ سمعتُ صوتاً يسألني:
"من تكونُ؟"
بحثتُ عن إجابةٍ في جيبي، فلم أجدْ سوى حفنةِ غبارٍ قديمٍ
وبقايا أصواتٍ لم يعدْ أحدٌ يذكرُ أصحابَها.
فقلتُ للصوتِ:
"أنا ظِلٌّ يتذكّرُ أنه كانَ ضوءاً،
أنا صدى كلمةٍ نسيَتْ من قالَها،
أنا خطأٌ لم يجدْ مكاناً ليسقطَ فيه،
أنا اللاشيءُ، يسعى ليكونَ شيئاً."

ثمَّ نظرتُ إلى يدي،
فرأيتُ أنني لم أكنْ هناك.

Version Italian 

TRA IL SILENZIO E IL NULLA 

All'inizio, le parole nascevano dalla cenere,
poi svanivano nel vuoto come se non fossero mai esistite.
Cercavo di sentire il suono dell’ombra che si ritirava dal muro,
ma il muro non c’era.
Cercavo una mano che afferrasse il tempo,
ma ho preso solo un vento leggero, sfuggito tra le mie dita.
Poi ho capito che il vuoto si riempie quanto più si cerca di misurarlo,
e che il nulla trattiene il mondo come una poesia incompiuta.

Mi chiedo: l’uomo era forse un’idea arrivata in ritardo?
Era forse l’ombra di una possibilità
che ha dimenticato di tornare al suo corpo?
Osservavo il tempo scorrere su un tavolo di vetro,
si scioglieva lentamente, lasciando tracce sulle dita,
poi scompariva.
Ma nessuno si accorgeva che il tavolo arrugginiva dall’interno.

Fuori, il silenzio riempiva i vicoli come un fumo freddo,
le porte si aprivano su se stesse
senza che nessuno entrasse o uscisse.
I marciapiedi aspettavano passi che non arrivavano,
e gli alberi cercavano di convincere i passanti
che ancora respiravano.

C’è forse una porta per uscire da questo cerchio?
Forse la porta non è nel muro,
forse la porta non è una porta,
ma un’idea che scivola nell’oscurità e si dissolve nell’aria.
Ma come si esce da qualcosa di cui non si conoscono i confini?
Come si attraversa l’altra riva senza sapere se esiste davvero un’altra riva?

Stavo pensando a questo, quando ho sentito una voce chiedermi:
“Chi sei?”
Ho cercato una risposta nella mia tasca,
ma non ho trovato altro che una manciata di polvere antica
e resti di voci di cui nessuno ricordava più i proprietari.
Allora ho detto alla voce:

“Io sono un’ombra che ricorda di essere stata luce,
sono l’eco di una parola che ha dimenticato chi l’ha pronunciata,
sono un errore che non ha trovato un posto dove cadere,
sono il nulla che cerca di diventare qualcosa.”

Poi ho guardato le mie mani,
e ho visto che io non c’ero più.

©® TAGHRID BOU MERHI - LIBANO - BRASILE



English Version

BETWEEN SILENCE AND NOTHINGNESS

In the beginning, words were born from ashes,
then vanished into emptiness as if they had never been.
I tried to hear the sound of the shadow withdrawing from the wall,
but the wall was not there.
I searched for a hand to grasp time,
but I held only a light breeze slipping through my fingers.
Then I realized that emptiness grows fuller the more one tries to measure it,
and that nothingness holds the world like an unfinished poem.

I wonder: was humanity merely an idea that arrived too late?
Was it the shadow of a possibility
that forgot to return to its body?
I watched time flow across a glass table,
melting slowly, leaving its trace on my fingers,
then disappearing.
Yet no one noticed that the table was rusting from within.

Outside, silence filled the alleys like cold smoke,
doors opened onto themselves
without anyone entering or leaving.
Sidewalks awaited footsteps that never came,
and trees tried to convince passersby
that they were still breathing.

Is there a door to escape this circle?
Perhaps the door is not in the wall,
perhaps the door is not a door at all,
but an idea slipping into darkness, dissolving into the air.
But how does one leave something whose boundaries are unknown?
How does one cross to the other shore without knowing if there is another shore?

I was thinking about this when I heard a voice ask me:
"Who are you?"
I searched my pocket for an answer,
but found only a handful of ancient dust
and the remnants of voices whose owners had long been forgotten.
So I said to the voice:

"I am a shadow that remembers being light,
I am the echo of a word that has forgotten who spoke it,
I am a mistake that never found a place to fall,
I am nothingness striving to become something."

Then I looked at my hands,
and saw that I was no longer there.

©® TAGHRID BOU MERHI - LEBANON - BRAZIL 



Spanich Version 

ENTRE EL SILENCIO Y LA NADA

Al principio, las palabras nacían de las cenizas,
luego desaparecían en el vacío como si nunca hubieran existido.
Intenté escuchar el sonido de la sombra retirándose de la pared,
pero la pared no estaba allí.
Busqué una mano que sostuviera el tiempo,
pero solo atrapé una brisa ligera que se escapaba entre mis dedos.
Entonces comprendí que el vacío se llena más cuanto más intentamos medirlo,
y que la nada sostiene al mundo como un poema inacabado.

Me pregunto: ¿fue la humanidad solo una idea que llegó tarde?
¿Fue la sombra de una posibilidad
que olvidó regresar a su cuerpo?
Observé el tiempo deslizándose sobre una mesa de cristal,
derritiéndose lentamente, dejando su rastro en mis dedos,
para luego desvanecerse.
Pero nadie notó que la mesa se oxidaba por dentro.

Afuera, el silencio llenaba los callejones como un humo frío,
las puertas se abrían sobre sí mismas
sin que nadie entrara o saliera.
Las aceras esperaban pasos que nunca llegaron,
y los árboles intentaban convencer a los transeúntes
de que aún respiraban.

¿Existe una puerta para salir de este círculo?
Tal vez la puerta no está en la pared,
tal vez la puerta no es una puerta,
sino una idea que se desliza en la oscuridad y se disuelve en el aire.
Pero, ¿cómo se escapa de algo cuyos límites son desconocidos?
¿Cómo se cruza a la otra orilla sin saber si hay otra orilla?

Pensaba en esto cuando escuché una voz preguntarme:
"¿Quién eres?"
Busqué en mi bolsillo una respuesta,
pero solo encontré un puñado de polvo antiguo
y los restos de voces cuyos dueños habían sido olvidados.
Entonces le respondí a la voz:

"Soy una sombra que recuerda haber sido luz,
soy el eco de una palabra que olvidó quién la pronunció,
soy un error que nunca encontró dónde caer,
soy la nada intentando convertirse en algo."

Luego miré mis manos,
y vi que ya no estaba allí.

©® TAGHRID BOU MERHI - LÍBANO - BRASIL


-----


Version French 

ENTRE LE SILENCE ET LE NÉANT

Au commencement, les mots naissaient des cendres, puis s’évanouissaient dans le vide comme s’ils n’avaient jamais existé.
J’essayais d’entendre la voix de l’ombre qui se retirait du mur, mais le mur n’était pas là.
Je cherchais une main pour saisir le temps, mais j’ai attrapé une brise légère qui s’est échappée entre mes doigts.
Puis j’ai compris que le vide se remplissait à mesure que j’essayais de le mesurer,
et que le néant tenait le monde comme un poème inachevé.

Se pourrait-il que l’homme soit une idée arrivée en retard ?
Était-il l’ombre d’une possibilité qui avait oublié de retourner à son corps ?
Je regardais le temps couler sur une table en verre,
le temps fondait lentement, laissait sa trace sur les doigts puis disparaissait,
mais personne ne remarquait que la table rouillait de l’intérieur.

Dehors, le silence emplissait les ruelles comme une fumée froide,
et les portes s’ouvraient sur elles-mêmes sans que personne n’entre ni ne sorte.
Les trottoirs attendaient des pas qui ne venaient pas,
et les arbres tentaient de convaincre les passants qu’ils respiraient encore.

Y avait-il une porte pour sortir de ce cercle ?
Peut-être que la porte n’était pas dans le mur,
peut-être que la porte n’était pas une porte, mais une idée qui glissait dans l’obscurité avant de se dissoudre dans l’air.
Mais comment sortir de quelque chose dont on ne perçoit pas les limites ?
Comment traverser vers l’autre rive sans savoir s’il y a une autre rive ?

Je réfléchissais à cela quand j’ai entendu une voix me demander :
"Qui es-tu ?"
J’ai cherché une réponse dans ma poche, mais je n’y ai trouvé qu’une poignée de poussière ancienne
et des restes de voix dont plus personne ne se souvenait.
Alors, j’ai dit à la voix :
"Je suis une ombre qui se souvient d’avoir été lumière,
je suis l’écho d’un mot qui a oublié qui l’avait prononcé,
je suis une erreur qui n’a pas trouvé d’endroit où tomber,
je suis le néant, cherchant à devenir quelque chose."

Puis j’ai regardé ma main,
et j’ai vu que je n’étais plus là.

©® TAGHRID BOU MERHI - LIBAN - BRÉSIL 

---

Version Portuguese

ENTRE O SILÊNCIO E O NADA 

No começo, as palavras nasciam das cinzas, depois se dissipavam no vazio como se nunca tivessem existido.
Eu tentava ouvir a voz da sombra se afastando da parede, mas a parede não estava lá.
Eu procurava uma mão que segurasse o tempo, mas agarrei uma brisa leve que escapou entre meus dedos.
Então percebi que o vazio se tornava mais cheio sempre que eu tentava medi-lo,
e que o nada segurava o mundo como um poema inacabado.

Será que o ser humano era uma ideia que chegou tarde demais?
Seria ele a sombra de uma possibilidade que esqueceu de voltar ao seu corpo?
Eu observava o tempo escorrendo sobre uma mesa de vidro,
o tempo derretia lentamente, deixava sua marca nos dedos e depois desaparecia,
mas ninguém percebia que a mesa enferrujava por dentro.

Lá fora, o silêncio enchia as vielas como uma fumaça fria,
e as portas se abriam para si mesmas sem que ninguém entrasse ou saísse.
As calçadas esperavam passos que nunca vinham,
e as árvores tentavam convencer os transeuntes de que ainda respiravam.

Haveria uma porta para sair desse círculo?
Talvez a porta não estivesse na parede,
talvez a porta não fosse uma porta, mas uma ideia que escorregava na escuridão antes de se dissolver no ar.
Mas como se sai de algo cujos limites não se percebem?
Como atravessar para a outra margem sem saber se existe uma outra margem?

Eu pensava nisso quando ouvi uma voz me perguntar:
"Quem é você?"
Procurei uma resposta no bolso, mas só encontrei um punhado de poeira antiga
e restos de vozes cujos donos ninguém mais lembrava.
Então, disse à voz:
"Sou uma sombra que se lembra de ter sido luz,
sou o eco de uma palavra que esqueceu quem a disse,
sou um erro que não encontrou onde cair,
sou o nada, tentando ser alguma coisa."

Então olhei para minha mão,
e vi que eu já não estava lá.

©® TAGHRID BOU MERHI - LIBANO - BRAZIL 

My Body, Your Choice

My body holds but flesh and bones for you:

My body has fat in all the right spots for you to hold and holler at.

My legs could be crumbling and I would still be an object to you.

My body was told that it had a choice,

 Yet every time I feel eyes on me,

 fear runs down my skin.

My body lost all hope when it bled out uncontrollably;

Letting Mother Nature turn her back on her children.

My body isn’t mine because I was born with a uterus, fragile and careless, instead of being Blessed with having a dick, hard and stern.

(pause and like heavy breathing (note for myself)

Red hands cover every inch of my body:

Taking control of my movements,

Taking my breath from my veins and lungs,

Taking away each of my rights as if ripping a strand of hair one by one.

With a deep red seeping out of my skin,

I hold myself close with no support but a tube down my throat,

Keeping my throat from closing and my body from breaking.

My body should be in shambles, 

With each shiver it should be gone,

But I was left intact, 

Left alive so I could be used again and again,

No limbs broken,

 But I feel the aching aftermath of every attempt,

Letting phantom hands graze over me swiftly.

My body is a choice to indulge or destroy,

But you choose both at the end.