The bride 

On Thursday, the first of April. University Street in the Karrada district was alive with a grand carnival. Fifteen carriages drawn by white horses paraded in majestic succession, perfectly coordinated, one after another. Leading the way was the bride's carriage, the sixteenth in total. This carriage stood out in every aspect. Colours were purposefully scattered across it, and in bold, green Kufic script, it read: Congratulations on your marriage. 

The horse was adorned in attire befitting the occasion, showered in vibrant, glittering colours. The coachman, dressed in colourful garb, his fez standing proudly atop his head, played with a leather rein and whipped the horse with the force of lightning, uttering incomprehensible words that only his companion and faithful horse might understand. The faces of those participating in the celebration glowed with laughter and joy, beaming with contentment. Everyone was happy. 

One remarked playfully, "A good idea... an innovative approach... horse-drawn carriages instead of cars." Another chimed in, "A new trend that might become widespread in the future." Someone else jested, "Atrees' marriage to Fouada is invalid..." The carriages jostled forward, horses neighing, applause growing louder and more vibrant. Bodies, heated by the warmth of the carnival, began to sweat. The women's faces turned redder and shinier. 

Children ran, delighted, drumming behind the horses. The women's ululations, both familiar and unfamiliar, echoed high. Children's voices rose and fell. Young girls sang an Iraqi song by Maida Nuzhet: Tonight is their henna night, and in Basra, they celebrate their wedding. Other girls echoed the second verse: Basra has become a paradise. Everyone was lost in their own world, but the bride and groom were in their own world. 

A smile graced the bride's lips, her dreamy, radiant eyes filled with meaning. The groom, with heartfelt sincerity, said, "Today is the day I've always dreamed of, being by your side, my dear." She lowered her head shyly, a faint smile playing on her lips, and replied, "Me too." He continued "You have no idea how much I love you and how I've longed for this day to come. Believe me, I'm not exaggerating when I say it's the happiest day of my life." 

She remained silent, perhaps out of shyness. He paused, then added, "I will, God willing, provide everything that makes you happy, my love." With a hint of mischief, he continued, "Do I have anything more precious than you now? You are the garden, and I am the gardener." Her lips parted in a broad smile, and her honey-colored eyes and angelic, childlike face radiated contentment. 

She responded, "I will make our home a bed of roses and the air filled with fragrance. I will serve you with the lashes of my eyes and remain faithful to you as long as I live." His heart warmed at her words, which fell upon him like pieces of ice on a scorching day. He gathered his composure and said, "Thank you for these heartfelt emotions... I always knew you were like this. Trust me, my dear, I will buy you a large house by the Tigris, with servants. I will make every room unique in its design and furniture. My love, I want to see you as a queen in this palace, an empress in this home." 

The coachman overheard some of these words, raised his whip high, and struck the horse forcefully as if to say, "Enough lies and deceit on this poor girl." The wedding procession continued its calm march, turning left onto Abu Nuwas Street, where the bars and clubs were. Men with beer bottles waved in celebration of the wedding parade, shouting various words, both polite and impolite. Ululations rose, and voices sang songs from a golden era. Words floated from here and there, indicating that on a wedding day, everything is permissible. 

The procession exited Abu Nuwas Street and turned onto Saadoun Street. The groom, feeling encouraged, said to her, "I will fulfil all your dreams. Don't be surprised, my heart burns for you, almost worshipfully. I will pray to God fervently to achieve our goal." The bride felt reassured by his praise, which was filled with love and devotion. Waves of affection and tenderness rose within her. 

She trusted him more and more, finding comfort in this man who had given her life and restored her identity. She believed his words, seeing them as honey from a sincere heart and a loyal, honorable husband. She drifted into the dreamy world of his rosy words, living in another realm, believing spring would soon bloom for her, unaware of the obstacles the future held. 

The groom continued with his sweet words, sending them to the bride, who was lost in a sea of happiness and perpetual spring. The couple remained immersed in this bliss, the relatives and guests continued their shouting and singing, and the coachman relentlessly whipped the horse. The street was still crowded with people, but the procession moved on joyously. 

Suddenly, the horse's leg twisted, and it collapsed. The bride's carriage quickly overturned, In the hospital, the bride had lost one of her eyes due to a severe blow to her head but the groom was unharmed. The groom looked at his bride intently, said nothing, turned his back, and left the hospital.The next day, he sent a note to his bride in the hospital: It's not proper for me to be married to a one-eyed woman, you are divorced. 

The bride shook her head and said, “Thank God...he failed on the first try." 

By Abdul Zahra Amara 
Translated by Faleeha Hassan

Abdul Zahra Amara Novelist, Storyteller, and Scientific Researcher Birth: 1951, Amara, Maysan Governorate, Southern Iraq Education: Bachelor's degree in Electronic Engineering from the College of Engineering, University of Baghdad, 1976 

Professional Roles: Editor-in-Chief of Sumerian Amarji Magazine Member of the Iraqi Engineers Syndicate with the rank of Consulting Engineer Published Works: Novels: Tomorrow I Will Leave! A Lover from Kanza Rabba Flu in Baghdad No Time for Tears Dogs in the Dark Blood in the Fish Lake The Servants Are on Vacation Baghdad Never Sleeps Fadia Waiting for the Moon The Blonde of Basra I Adore You Until the End of My Life Palace Rats A Forest of Thieves The Glow of Youth Cellist Stories: The Sun Shines in Women's Eyes Misses of Babylon A Cat on the Road When Do You Take Off the Turban? The Secretary and the Fall.

A Tale of a Bird

A bird of prey flew away before me
While I was watching, I could not turn my eyes for a single moment
From that scene of changing ponderous sight.  
I was not born at the time of independence of our Bangladesh
It ignited my nerves and blood to see the way of people’s
Breaking the curfew flowing the waves of the ocean on the road.

The king bird sat with the chief of staffs
But what an irony of fate no way other than 
Resigning the post of the prime minister!
It had only forty minutes to leave the nest of Gono Bhabon
And at last the bird spread its feathers and flew away out of sight.

I would not like to write any episode for this
Though it has already been written in every part of the earth
And will last in every pages of history for the generation after generation
They will learn the type of bird and will sigh in astonishing
I see the birds everyday flying over head
Not like that on 05 August, 2024.

Chapainawabganj,  Bangladesh
13 August, 2024.


Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

Sweetness in everything 

The sweetness in a child's voice binds the hearts of parents 
A young woman's sweet smile seduces a man 
Unhappy people cure sadness with chocolate 
All the delights of this world are intoxicating 
And attractive 
As we get closer, everything carries both poison and medicine in it. 
But no matter how much it ensnares us, we again go towards sweetness in all things.


Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.

Save Mother Earth

Forest of concrete,
Nature's creations deplete
Future's pride complete
Nature waves defeat,
Man's selfish greed can't compete
Man filled with deceit
Salvation to wit,
Past's follies let's not repeat
Earth's hope let us lit
Let vows be concrete,
Reverse what we did deplete
Stewardship complete.



DARK SKIES BEAT THE DRUM
where lies, betrayals,
violence, hardships
all come to weaken
a man's gentle soul

TEARDROPS FALL IN ANGUISHED HUM
hopelessness and apathy
made men silent, unwilling
to change or fight anything
in life and within himself

PARCHED LAND SATED DUMB
until man is filled
of great sufferings
and choked with anger,
drowned in disbelief
.......
Only then will he
unite his numbed heart and mind
learn to fight for change



Rainy Chatter

Tip tap tip tap
Rain danced the tap
Fleece for my wrap
Phone on my lap
My bed's my trap
Feigning a nap
Tippy tappy 
Raindrops yappy
Curtains flappy
Cold gusts snappy
Slipped in trappy
I'm not happy
Tipsy tapsy 
Weather's tipsy
Cloud's not flipsy
Endless drizzy
Trees are dizzy
I feel lazy
Tipper tapper
Heard no thunder
No volt bender
I feel hunger
Jar to plunder
Lemon ginger
Tip tap tip tap
Off for nightcap
Chatter now ZAP!

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.

It is dedicated to our young athletes who went to the Olympics You are the honor and pride of the nation, You are the original creator of the nation facing the world, You can’t live without the blood of Temurbegu alpomish.

All your native people are praying for you Bring home gold and silver medals! Who has seen the brave girls of my Uzbeg, Be proud of the words of our president, May joy fill those dark eyes of yours, Be proud, don’t let any of your mines fall off the mountain Bring home gold and silver medals. Let history be kind to you, let youth give you courage May God bless you with good luck and happiness

Be such a great person, a building for the future Being born in this country is your real happiness Bring home gold and silver medals. Such a dear place has raised a child like you If he sacrifices for this country, even his life is worth it Uzbekistan is an epic for the whole world

Tell you that I am an Uzbek that the world cannot match Bring home gold and silver medals.

A boy’s plea to a lost home

Bullets fed a young lad’s body when I hid myself under charred bones of my people, we could only see peace in the stories my grandmother told when sanity was still by her side, she could fiction reality into a charming tale. Even though she smelt like war and bullets, she still knitted her country’s anthem to her heart. This is not a tale of a patriotic woman who died as humus for the soil, but simply a plea to let a wandering soul lie peacefully at my backyard.

If only life was a song sang by mother when my father came back with his limbs complete and a head on his body with his uniform hung behind his bruised back . My family is a mindless holocaust of a barbaric nation who spells peace in the letters of protests.

 My father left with fear glued to his mind, he left a wife with fear of her husband coming back in letters he wrote to formalize his good-byes, my mother became a canvass of pain holding my father in myriads of memories.

When death hung under my throat; I could taste its stinging taste. Oh lord……., I beseech you, those words were strangers to my tongue. Who knew lord when I worshipped the bullets that dug holes in my body; I held tears in my heart not ready to flood this burning country. I’m still alive waiting to be burned by the flames of a lost country. So now tell me how to define a country with lost homes I lived in?

Fatima Abdulwahab is a 16 year old poet and essayist. Her hobbies are writing and also reading. She enjoys the company of her family and friends. She was long listed in the African writers award competition 2023 and also the winner of the Arts lounge magazine ( the greens we left behind edition).