WHEN EVENING COMES

When evening comes,

My morning revolution subsides

I live in my mother’s lap.

My scattered tresses arrange it

In a spring braid

Swim in her eyes and read the boat

And the lifetime oars

I accepted it and I repeat it for her ten

Scatter it on the hands and the corner

When evening comes,

I love my mother and her survivors.

The words of a poet taking her first steps

In words and prose whenever evening falls.

***

Poem (judgment in a rejected case)

Algerian poet Turkia Loussif

The lawyer collected my case papers

And he said: your case is rejected.

The judge will reject it

And the offender rejects it

And the violinist rejects it

Your crime, Ma’am, is that you dropped the victim.

Your crime ma’am what happened to him

Crazy singing

Crazy writes love words

I said, “I’m innocent, sir.”

And the rain showers are witness

And my broken rain

And my short skirt

And my hair flowing

Witnesses, sir.

We didn’t see the victim.

The lawyer returns and checks the papers.

He found a poem he read.

She shivered and shouted, “I’m accused!”

The lawyer read …

She dragged my killer and her broken emollient

I got wet and squeezed the skirt

Slim figure, wet butterfly

Jana Haha trembling and eulogizing

I dried it and gave it my perfume

I perfumed and strutted and left

My perfume draws me to it

The thief of my heart shivered wet

And I shivered in hope

And my perfume is a witness to it

___

DON’T LEAVE…

Don’t leave

The soul accompanies you

And you slip from me

I’m the dead woman.

After counting the steps of departure

Don’t leave…

The Miqat is October

Leaf I was flowering

Until

Don’t leave.

All the seasons you were with me

And leave

In my last chapters

After inhaling all the winds

Console me now, don’t you fool around?

My tears dried up

My soul is burned

You made me a graveyard for my sorrows

And to whine

Don’t leave.

WITH A DRY OLIVE BRANCH CARVED A SPEAR

With a dry olive branch carved my spear

And I call Nidal and Basil and Marai

I am the sculptor, spears and conquerors

And I am the shooter and I am the one who is right with my spear

Shrapnel and shrapnel in Gazaya

And the three of us were in a holy wrath.

Guys and guys and they are like me

Spears and spears in the breasts of Moshe

The spears fell and they fell,

And the three of us fell with the coffin.

And the dry olive branch remains in my palm.

_________________

Delightful butterfly 

I ask her, why are you hovering around me!?

Her eyes speak green. 

You land on the dry branch!! It is affected 

She sheds dew from her eyes on yellowish paper

I see you my mother and the world remembers me and more

You look like a big butterfly, even more. 

She was delightful and you were the youngest cheerful 

Did I answer your question? 

Tell me how were you 

And where are the butterflies in the flowering field? 

 Showed the cheerful great influence  

And she moved her wings. 

  The weight of her wings    

And her eyeballs were teary

I’m no longer the cheerful butterfly. 

Be the cheerful butterfly. 

The field is green 

And the cast is red 

And the dew is dripping 

Stay away from my dry branch and more 

 Threads weave and multiply 

And wrap you around like me. She was looking.

More of Turkia Loucif’s work here.

Loucif is an Algerian writer who grew up in a family of many members and lived in a house left over from the houses of French centenarians in the neighborhood of arches. Her passion began with telling oral stories to her two sisters before bed, her mother realized her talent and she loved nature, flowers and squirrels, she frequented the school library and read novels in French. She dreamed of becoming a journalist and used to take this profession as a child, she used to make her notebook a microphone and talk to some of her family members. Her writing style caught the attention of her teacher, who registered her in a literary competition and won first place at the age of 12.  

She published the novel “The Legend of the Squirrel” in 2016. Another novel “Virginia Park” was published in 2018. She published her first short story collection “Aboud Cannot Endure the Whip” in 2021. Her play “Dance of the Puppets” was adapted from her story “The Puppeteer Moussa and the Others.”   

The Squirrel was a bestseller with Golden Jerusalem House, which accompanied the author over nine years of participation in book fairs. This novel was selected in the literature of young people through a competition in which the participants of the Ajlana Library participated and in which a boy and two girls won. As for her collection of short stories, she presented critical readings by critics from Algeria and the Arab world. Among her global achievements is the book Together All of America by the American principled writer Kogetim Hadjari, which she considers Turkish in her honor.

Currently, she is a writer and has a fictional novel The Legend of a Squirrel published in 2016 and signed in front of readers at the International Book Fair in 2017, then presented a romantic novel entitled Virginia Park, then presented her collection of stories Abboud does not bear the whip. Currently she works in the field of cultural journalism in Al-Masar Al-Arabi newspaper.

She won second place in the Arabic Story Competition by the “Narrators Sing” club. Her story “The Squirrel” won first place in the “Tell, Scheherazade” story competition. She received honors on Press Day from the Governor of the state of Médéa. She was honored in children’s literature with a squirrel statue for her novel “The Legend of the Squirrel” in June 2024 by Dar Kuds.

For HDC

Grief is a stupid thing.

I grieve that you’re not here to grieve

all the corpses in the water.

All the corpses we’ve built out of laws

that say you don’t belong.

The Heroism of Shiroq

Throughout history, many nations have sacrificed their lives for their people, freedom, and homeland. Among them, the Saka tribes who once lived in the ancient Aral Sea region rightfully deserve a place. In particular, the clash with the Persian king Darius I and the bravery of Shiroq reflect the courage of this people.

In the second half of the 6th century BCE, a powerful empire emerged in the Near East — the Achaemenid Empire. Its founder Cyrus II, followed by his son Cambyses II, and later his grandson Darius I, continued the policy of expanding the Persian state. The next target of their expansionist campaigns became the land of the Saka.

At that time, the Saka were free and warlike tribes living in the Aral Sea region, along the Syr Darya River and surrounding territories. They stood out for their strong cavalry forces, deep connection to their homeland, and independent worldview. The Persians sought to conquer these lands, but the task proved far from easy.

According to Herodotus, Darius I launched a major campaign against the Saka. However, during their march across deserts and rivers, the Persian army encountered severe hardships. Rather than engaging in open battle, the Saka responded with cunning and mobile tactics — luring the invaders deeper into their homeland while gradually depleting their forces along the way.

It was during this very campaign that the legendary act of Shiroq — inscribed in golden letters in history — took place. According to legend, Darius’s army lost its way in the desert. They captured a local Saka named Shiroq and demanded he lead them to water. But instead of betraying his homeland, Shiroq deliberately guided the enemy deep into the heart of the desert — toward destruction. Exhausted by hunger and thirst, the Persian army was forced to retreat. Shiroq, by sacrificing his life, saved his homeland.

This act of heroism proves how one person can change the fate of an entire nation. In the image of the Saka people, Shiroq became immortalized in history as a brave son who gave his life for his land and people. His courage represents the highest form of valor.

The Saka’s success in this campaign was the result of their bravery, patriotism, and unwavering devotion to freedom. They defended their independence not through brute force, but with wisdom, courage, and unity. Today, we must view this historical event not merely as a tale from the past, but as a lasting example of our ancestors’ heroism.

The lesson is clear: history is a cry from the past. It reminds us — “Never forget whose descendants you are.”

ترجمتي لنص: peace 

للشاعرة اليونانية: إيفا بيتروبولو ليانو/EVA Petropoulou Lianou 

 سَلام  

نَدفَعُ أرواحَنَا ثَمَنًا 

لقَرَاراتٍ اِتَّخَذَها الآخَرُونَ..  

لأَنَّهُم يَنظُرُونَ إِلَى جُيُوبِهِم  

وَلا يُبَالُونَ بِأَمْنِ الكَوْنِ!  

لِمَاذَا تَنْشَبُ الحُروبُ؟  

و دائمًا، ذات الإجابة  

لَا أَحَدَ يَعلَمُ!  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَكَلَّمَ،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَواصل،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَقَبَّلَ،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَحتَرِمَ.  

سَلام..  

كَلِمَةٌ نَادِرَةٌ فِي هَذِا الكَوْكَبْ  

مُذ أن وُجِدَ البَشَرِ  

كَانت السَّكِينَةُ امتيازًا لِقِلَّة!  

اِفهَمْ،  

اِستَمِعْ،  

اِصْمُتْ،

تلك هي سُّننٌ يُبنى بها غدٌ زاهٍ.

أَمَل..  

كَيْ لَا يَنَامَ اللَّيْلَةَ طِفْلٌ  

دُونِ وَالِدَيْهِ!  

صلُّوا،

لتحفّ ملائكةُ الرحمة

كلَّ البيوت.

©®إيفا بيتروبولو ليانو 

—  

*ترجمة أدبية تحافظ على الإيقاع الشعري وتضفي لمسةً من البلاغة العربية، مع احترام روح النص الأصلي.*

 PEACE,

We pay with our lives

Decision others took

Because they are looking at their pockets

And not at the safety of the planet

Why a war is happening?

Always the same response

Nobody knows

Learn to talk

Learn to communicate 

Learn to accept

Learn to respect

Peace,

So rare in this planet

Since the existence of the humans

Quiet was a privilege for few

Understand,

Listen

Be silent

Those are the rules for a bright future

Hope,

No children will sleep 

Without his parents tonight

Pray,

For Angel’s protection

To everyone’s house

You are my guide, master Shoira 

Life is like this, a caravan, 

One day is good, one day is bad, 

The strongest and kindest in the world, 

This is my teacher Shoira

What trials he went through,

Sometimes tears come to my eyes, 

How much you suffered, 

You are my only teacher Shoira

Everyone struggles with their own pain, 

Life is getting more and more difficult, 

You are the solution to a thousand trials,

You are my only teacher Shoira

Worries and trials will end one day,

May there never be sadness in your heart

Thank you for being in my life, 

You are my only teacher Shoira

Thank you a thousand times for being in my life, You worked hard for me, 

May beautiful happiness always surround you 

You are my only master Shoira

Sobirjonova Rayhona, a 10th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school in Vobkent district, Bukhara region. She was born in December 2008 in the village of Cho’rikalon, Vobkent district, in a family of intellectuals. Rayhona’s parents supported her from a young age and she started writing in the 3rd grade. Her first creative poem was published in the newspaper “Vobkent Hayot”. She has also published extensively in Synchronized Chaos International Magazine, India’s Namaste India Magazine, Gulkhan Magazine, Germany’s RavenCage Magazine and many other magazines and newspapers.  She has participated in many competitions, won high places and many prizes. She is still busy creating!

ECHOES IN THE RUIN

In Gaza’s north, where shadows loom and fall,

A cry rises, echoing through it all,

The whispers of the hungry, the weary, and the worn,

A people besieged, with hope forlorn.

The streets, once vibrant, now a desolate stage,

Where silence screams, and desperation engages,

The eyes, once bright, now dim with pain,

Reflecting the struggle, the endless refrain.

We search for crumbs, for scraps of bread,

In a land that’s barren, where hope is dead,

The markets empty, the shelves laid bare,

A people starving, with no one to care.

The children weep, their bellies tight,

Their laughter silenced, their eyes without light,

The parents’ gaze, a mix of grief and shame,

As they watch their loved ones bear the weight of blame.

The hospitals, a testament to pain,

Where medicine’s scarce, and care’s in vain,

The doctors’ hands, tied by lack of aid,

As patients suffer, their lives displayed.

The water’s bitter, undrinkable, and dry,

A luxury denied, as the people cry,

For a drop to quench, a sip to soothe,

A basic right, now a distant truth.

In this landscape, where despair reigns,

We search for solace, for a glimmer of peace that remains,

But like a mirage, it vanishes from sight,

Leaving us with nothing, but the dark of night.

Oh, for a way out, a path to flee,

From this cycle of pain, this endless sea,

A chance to breathe, to live, to be,

Free from the grip of misery.

The world outside, does it know our plight?

Does it see our struggle, our endless fight?

Or are we just statistics, numbers cold,

Faceless victims, our stories untold?

We yearn for aid, for a helping hand,

To guide us through, this desolate land,

To find a way, to escape the pain,

To live again, to love, to laugh, to sustain.

In the silence, a voice whispers low,

Of hope, of resilience, of a people who won’t bow,

Though battered, bruised, and worn so thin,

Their spirit remains, a flame that flickers within.

So let us hold on, to this glimmer of light,

This beacon of hope, in the dark of night,

Let us strive, to rise above the pain,

To find a way, to live again.

Dedicated to history

You hold within all days gone by,

The past that none can now deny.

The wars once waged with blood and flame,

And whispers time could never tame.

You saw the rebels rise in fight,

Brave sons who battled for the right.

For homeland’s sake, they faced the storm,

To war they marched in fearless form.

The page now shakes beneath my pen,

As tales of ancestors rise again.

A silent ache within my chest—

To write of history is no jest.