Here is another day without you,

This sick heart is punished by the Hijran.

A dark night that cannot be matched by my heart,

The spaces left by the stars.

Here is another day without you,

My eyes are fluttering, clinging to the river.

I am still waiting because I miss you,

Come and see the pain in my heart.

Here is another day without you,

Today is passing, and tomorrow will pass.

Years may pass,

Your pictures are always on my page.

Here is another day without you,

Trust me, no one is waiting for you like me.

This is not difficult to wait for,

For my patience,

Maybe my absence from you will never end.

Here is another day without you,

Tell me how can I comfort this heart?

My longing cries are so sad,

My life is now so sad.

Anatomy of Broken Lines

Each time I look at the headlines, I see thick dark clouds condensing into a pool of vague bloody rain, with each drop piercing deeply into this world’s melanin. Altering its colours from green to purple, boring into the deep depths ocean of this spaceship.

‎This ocean I say, isn’t just a billion water drops, it is not even a thousand sea fully converged to form the Atlantic this accursed world has ever seen. It is the waters of original sin sinking into the skin of dry land.

‎This is to say our bodies has become a vessel of transmutation, decaying into a Tabernacle caving original sin, because grief lives in us. It becomes a synonymous hyperbole of who we are.

 A pillar of broken stones shattered due to Earth’s rotation, colliding like a planet that chewed itself due its body has indeed become a mechanism of digestion. Breaking flames down into minute pieces of hatred.

‎‎This world has become a filament of dead songs, composed by the torn face of wind. Floating in fireballs that even the numbers in this world lacks the vocabulary to number.

‎‎She carries this world’s flesh, she nurtures them in her womb while she patiently awaits the rise of a bloody moon.

‎‎Only then can we know the true definition of pain, because metaphors itself cannot define it, poetry can only feel it using crooked lines.

‎But the truth can only be seen by telescoping into torture knowing its colour, its genetic material. Untill then this is reality in a fantasy of a broken world.

‎

‎Anthony Chidi Uzoechi, an obsessed Sci-fi writer whose imagination Journeys beyond the heavens of creativity. He is a bonafide member of the Hill Top Creative Art Foundation Minna, a Short story writer, a Poet, Pen artist and a Theologian. He’s an Indigen of Imo State Nigeria. Asides studying and being a Shakespeare Anthony Chidi Uzoechi is an addictive studier, he studies anything significant that comes his way.

‎Just like how the universe is without bound in suspense, Anthony  Journeys into unraveling the deep depth of creativity through writing.

‎Facebook: Anthony Chidi Uzoechi 

Instagram: @anthonychiuzo

X: @anthonychiuzo

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Jerome Berglund (italic)

Christina Chin (plain)

tiger

fears the serpent 

also

artificial selection 

survival traits

pink hyacinth 

revenging self 

upon desire

invasive 

the Terror of Bengal

per-chic-o-ree

bumming a light in front of 

propane tanks 

swoops and chirps 

conversations with friends

End of Summer

(1)

I don’t wear my Hawaiian shirt anymore.

Those were the good old days,

actually the good old great days,

racing into the waves,

exploding through them like a torpedo.

Swimming farther out

to meet the next rising mountain of water.

(2)

I was unafraid back then.

Of course I was a lot younger,

before the sun and the cold turned me old.

(3)

No.  I was never in Hawaii.

I just had an Hawaiian shirt.

And it’s still hanging in my closet.

A Waste of the Sea

(1)

They say don’t go into the water.

It’s polluted now.

(2)

Waves along shores of trash.

It will give you today’s latest rash

and much more.

(3)

Memories coming like a tidal wave,

with no ark

big enough

to save.

Laguna Beach

My Bikini Girl

in my dreams from long ago.

Are you still alive?

Do I still have a chance

to walk with you

hand in hand

in the warmth of the sand?

Moist Lips

Lick of the sea

tasting tease

summer’s end

forever dreams

magnified.

Prayer

Come swim with me

in the palm of the sea,

God’s tear of heaven.

Deathiversary

If not you, the bird. If not the bird, 

me.

But the bird has been dead for months now,

I made sure of that.

But you still rot away at my solace.

Did I do the right thing?

Should I have shot the bird?

Should I have buried you?

I remain unsure, even now

No good son should abandon his father.

Last I was here, over your grave

I told you a few things,

Maybe I shouldn’t have said them,

Ruining your funeral

I don’t know if I regret it.

I won’t forgive you

For taking my father from me

But it doesn’t matter

Because I’m not seeing him again

I’m not seeing you again

I told you I changed,

Not that you could hear

I told you I was tired of your shit, 

not that it matters anymore

But no matter what I think, I’m tired of these ghosts.

Nikolina Hua’s Echo IV: Free Nations in C Minor is a richly allusive and labyrinthine poem that navigates the psychological depths of a mind deeply attuned to the inner soul and wider society. Its verses move like whispered confessions, cloaked in clever ambiguity and metaphors. 

At first glance, the poem seems abstract—perhaps deliberately so. But beneath its surface lies a disquieting echo of societal upheaval, rendered not through direct reference, but via dreamlike symbolism. The lines ‘hair tangles with phosphorus’ and ‘cherry trees beneath imperial drones’ hint of gentle vulnerability in the midst of wider violence, although inflicted by whom, it is deliberately obscure and therefore readers can universally sympathize with the emotions evoked. 

The musical motifs are particularly evocative to me as a composer, the term ‘C Minor’ harmonizes with the tension ubiquitous across the entire poem. The work is also terse, the stanzas are short and each line pauses frequently, almost in doubt. Apart from sounds, the poem is also deeply colourful in its imagery, such as ‘black ribbons freeze on unnamed streets’, or ‘fists gripping blue’, each colour a metaphor, yet of what? 

The influence from Russian literature can be sensed from the psychological undercurrents: an obsession with guilt, a longing for seeking meaning onto a world that resists coherence.  These themes are Dostoyevskian in texture—one can almost feel the spectral presence of Notes from Underground in the speaker’s intellectual and affective isolation. Yet, despite the linguistic artistry being of specific provenance, its message speaks universally to the human condition. 

The choice for obscurity instead of clarity is in itself a strength. By being a cryptic mirror, it invites the readers to find their own struggles within the poem’s ambiguous torment. By being obscure, Echo IV: Free Nations in C Minor ends up revealing so much more about ourselves.

Full poem can be found here

FREE NATIONS IN C MINOR

Orcs gnawed the capital’s door,

cherry trees scream beneath imperial drones.

Existence is a slit throat.

Hair tangles with phosphorus,

ghost hymns ride through occupied smoke.

Speech chokes on its own tongue.

Black ribbons freeze on unnamed streets.

Bones in gloves, fists gripping blue,

nails scrape through basement rust.

Hands remember what mouths can’t speak.

A million fingers pull the tyrant down.

This is how I claw myself free:

Change this. Change that. Never turn back

or the money drags you down

ankle-first into wolves’ den.

Beating grief against their ribs,

free nations sing in C minor.

The dark sea holds its breath.

Ng Yu Hng is an award-winning composer whose works explore musical time, liturgy, and intertextual dialogue. He holds a Master’s from the Royal Academy of Music (Countess of Munster scholar) and a King’s College London alum, winning the Purcell Prize. His music has been performed across 15 countries and published internationally, with commissions from ensembles worldwide.