First, some announcements before our first May issue, Paradoxical Understandings.

Poetry submissions to North of Oxford’s Streur Anthology are now open!

North of Oxford would like to pay tribute to the late Russell Streur, poet and publisher of The Camel Saloon and The Plum Tree Tavern with an online anthology dedicated to Nature. Send us your poems of Nature, of floral and fauna, of forests and trees, of rivers, creeks and streams. Of farms, of urban nature, of parks and sanctuaries, of oceans and bays, of islands, of all things, Nature.

Send one to three poems for consideration of publication to North of Oxford at sahmsguarnieriandreutter@gmail.com  Subject line of submission: Streur Anthology. Submissions will be accepted until 5/31/25. Only submissions attached as word doc will be reviewed. Please include a 100-word bio within the word doc.

https://northofoxford.wordpress.com/2025/04/13/streur-nature-anthology-submissions/

Announcement from Jacques Fleury:
 “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  is being featured on the Boston Public Library website for Haitian American Heritage Month in May!

Eva Petropoulou Lianou shares a short film inspired by NASA’s inclusion of her poetry in a capsule launched to the moon.

Synopsis
On 26th February 2025 NASA launched a capsule with poems to the moon, one of them was the anti-war poem “Happy Birthday”. Written by Eva Lianou Petropoulou, Directed & Animated by Zina Papadopoulou, Music & Sound by Grigoris Grigoropoulos

Lunar codex, Athena, Minerva Excelsior, The Vagabond Anthology, edited by Mark Lipman, dedicated to the Palestinian poet Ahmed Miqdad

Also, our contributor Brian Barbeito’s new book has just come out, When I Hear the Night. This is a prose poem and landscape photography book. Included with the words and pictures are two literary and dynamic introductory essays, one by poet and editor Jude Goodwin, and another by the writer and editor Mary Buchanan Sellers, figures current and thus well-informed in the field. There are also author notes and question-and-answer sections. The writings can be said to have interesting elements of memoir, essay, belle-lettres, poetry, and short story forms. Their content often includes the mystic and inner vision of the author coupled with the outside world of nature walking and travel.

When I Hear the Night can be ordered here.

Now, for May 2025’s first issue: Paradoxical Understandings. In this issue, we explore various perspectives and vantage points, how multiple things can be true at once in our complex universe.

To begin, poet Yang Yujun interviews Sudhakar Gaidhani about the inspirations behind his epic poetic work Devdoot the Angel, which promotes wisdom and unity among the world’s diverse groups of people and philosophies.

On a more personal level, Peter Cherches writes of understandings and misunderstandings, how much we can come to know or forget about those closest to us. Aziza Xazanova urges human understanding through avoiding assumptions and listening with empathy. Daniel De Culla relates a story where a person in trouble simply seeks a listening ear, not rescue.

One way people can understand each other better is by learning each other’s languages. Several contributors discuss pedagogical methods for language teaching.

Malika Abdusamadovna writes about translation techniques, the importance of clarity in a teacher’s speech, principles of word division in various European languages, and ways to teach speech activity. Gafurova Mahbuba discusses complex sentence structure, digital game metrics as teaching tools, and practical and theoretical approaches to translation. Oblaqulova Gulshoda examines and compares the implied meanings of Uzbek and Japanese idioms.

Abdullajonova Rayhona outlines methods of translation practice, how to teach speech activities, principles for the categorization of words, and how to teach language through movement and stories. Olimova Shahina discusses how to improve English learners’ skill in speaking. Matqurbonova Ro’zaxon explores different methods of improving spoken word fluency in language learners. Husanboyeva Nargiza highlights the potential of new digital technologies in education.

Other contributors reinterpret language in concrete and abstract ways. Jerome Berglund renders different poetic forms into concrete images. Noah Berlatsky contributes a humorous poem about procrastination that uses repetition as a literary device. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam craft joint tan-renga poems, finishing each other’s pieces with images of music, nature, rest, and memories. Rus Khomutoff’s concrete poetry takes us on a journey of surrealism, music, and romance.

Like Khomutoff, other writers travel deep into their own psyches. Brian Barbeito reflects on his thought process and creative journeys, considering how he both opens his mind to emptiness and enlightenment and, like a skilled hockey player, remembers the basics of his craft. On another note, Nigar Nurulla Khalilova evokes writers’ block and an intense, foul mood as harsh as the Arab Simoom wind.

Mesfakus Salahin ponders the fragility of human identity and self-concept. Mark Young’s poetry explores creative processes, relationships, and the search for meaning. Texas Fontanella’s music digs deep for a dose of duende. Tagrid Bou Merhi draws on train travel as a metaphor for introspection and longing for one’s past or future. Stephen Jarrell Williams crafts a series of verses describing a person’s inner struggle and renewal. Ari Nystrom-Rice explores identity, wondering who he truly is underneath the surface. Mexribon Shodiyeva’s poetry celebrates the fragile butterfly and the beauty of being yourself. Shamsiya Khudoynazarova Turumovna relates having had the courage to free herself from an unhealthy situation and walk her own path.

Paul Cordeiro speaks to the aftermath of significant relationships and events and to how our feelings can reshape our memories. On a less serious level, Mark Blickley develops a farcical story of unemployment fraud inspired by a photo of a man with a sheep skull, where a character invests deeply into reinventing himself.

On a more cosmic level, Jack Mellender’s work looks at space, time, and humanity’s place in the universe. Ummnusalma Nasir Mukhtar relates a fanciful and expansive dream where she traveled to the moon and stars and gathered her strength. Jacques Fleury’s photography encourages us to view life from different vantage points, exploring concepts as varied as travel, physical attraction, thought, and justice.

Duane Vorhees reflects on ancient archetypes and how we tell stories about ourselves. Sayani Mukherjee reflects on the constant turbulence of human and natural history. Dr. Jernail S. Anand probes some basic paradoxes of modern human life.

Rezauddin Stalin reflects on the beauty and the price of freedom as Blue Chynoweth reflects on the blessing and curse of being able to contemplate one’s place in the universe rather than living by instinct.

Mahbub Alam wonders whether love or self-destruction will win the day. As a person of faith grappling with these issues, Chimezie Ihekuna addresses life’s seemingly intractable struggles, suffering, and human evil, and also God’s implacable goodness in a paradoxical couplet of poems. Lilian Dipasupil’s paired poems take a similar approach, warning of child kidnapping while honoring the love and sacrifice of Jesus.

As writers, one of the ways we can respond to evil is to bear witness and document it as a warning. This is one of the roles of journalism. Davronova Asilabonu affirms the value of journalism and speculates on the field’s future.

More traditionally literary writing can bear witness as well. Yucheng Tao provides a sobering reminder of the historical massacres of the indigenous people of the American West by European settlers and of many Cambodians later in history by the Khmer Rouge. Z.I. Mahmud explores how Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Hound of the Baskervilles brought realism into detective fiction, illustrating the monstrosity of human greed and vengeance. Rahmat Muhammad laments how people where she lives in northern Nigeria no longer honor elders and ancestors as much as they should.

Yet, history has not all been bleak, and people have developed some magnificent works. Christopher Bernard reviews the energizing performance of Grupo Corpo at Berkeley’s Cal Performances, highlighting how the dances reflect various aspects of Brazilian culture. Federico Wardal outlines the accomplishments of celebrated actor Massimo Sangalli. Jeffrey Levert delves into history and philosophy as he wanders the back pathways of a remote Greek island. Graciela Noemi Villaverde poetizes on the beauty of old books and the sorrow of losing or forgetting the words inside.

Shuhratbekova Gulzoda describes the historical contributions of the humanist Jadid leaders of Uzbekistan to art, literature, science, and culture. Dilobar Maxmarejabova expresses her pride in her Uzbek heritage and her hometown of Qashqadaryo. Hashimjonova Durdana affirms her pride in her Uzbek heritage and culture. Nozima Gofurova outlines the many achievements of today’s Uzbek youth.

Bhagirath Choudhary points to the role of literature in terms of helping people and societies evolve to become more humane. Dr. Jernail S. Anand illuminates the power of art and literature to touch people’s hearts and souls and inspire wiser and more compassionate behavior.

Alexander Klujev highlights connections between Russian music and Russian philosophy and how both honor the triumph of life over death.

Various contributions celebrate different aspects of life. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva enjoys a picnic with her classmates on a sunny spring day. Su Yun evokes the struggle and beauty of flowers growing in an urban environment. Isabel Gomez de Diego photographs childhood exuberance in a neighborhood where humans coexist with nature, trees and bike paths near city apartments. Eva Petropoulou Lianou crafts a story around the evocatively named “Hero’s Path,” a hiking trail near a European monastery. She finds simple joy in nature and travel. Manik Chakraborty takes poetic inspiration from misty mountains as Taro Hokkyo honors his muse and the land on which he writes.

Marjona Jorayeva Baxtiyorovna expresses her respect for women and the feminine, which she links to nurturing and compassion. Gulsanam Qurbonova celebrates the tender nurturing of a mother’s love. Vo Thi Nhu Mai reflects on the warmth and tenderness of her childhood in Vietnam and how that inspired her creativity. Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures vintage childhood images: Snoopy, old Easter themed toys, a colorful frog, even possibly Dad’s aftershave. David Sapp enters the mind of a three-year-old, excited about cereal and dogs. Marjona Jo’rayeva relates her enthusiasm for a fresh term at school.

Kristy Raines expresses the simple yet profound joy of two souls finding true love and choosing each other. Eid Saleh writes in English and Arabic of the meeting of souls in a similar way, and refers both to romance and to close friendship. Qaraboyeva Zilola expresses the tender urgency, trepidation, and obsession of young love. Marley Manalo-Ladicho ignites a fiery love feast in his poetry.

However, as Taylor Dibbert points out in his brief poem, romances, and other sources of happiness, aren’t guaranteed to last.

Tuliyeva Sarvinoz’ elegant poetry laments lost love as Mirta Liliana Ramirez honors the memory of a beloved, asserting that she’s not yet ready to move forward. Eva Petropoulou Lianou touches on the tenderness of human hearts and how many of us carry emotional trauma. J.J. Campbell’s poems describe a soul’s slow descent into misery and cynicism. Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal speaks to social and psychological entrapment, stuck with folks tired of his old stories. Linda S. Gunther’s short story “Bake Me a Banyan Tree” explores what we owe our loved ones and how far we would go for them.

Eric Barr’s poetry reflects the realities of navigating life after a stroke. Manik Chakraborty laments destruction caused by a fire as Mykyta Ryzhykh reimagines the Three Little Pigs into a futuristic dystopia in light of environmental destruction. Don Bormon evokes extreme desert heat and the specter of climate change.

Alex S. Johnson takes us on a mythical journey to transmute sorrow in a poem translated into Greek by Cassandra Alogoskoufi.

Sometimes what one needs to overcome suffering isn’t as complex as alchemy, but can just be time at home curled up with one’s cat. Nicholas Gunther’s poem describes a weary soul’s desire to return home after a long journey. Bill Tope’s short story explores how a senior cat helped bring an older woman out of depression after society made both feel useless.

We hope that Synchronized Chaos can inspire creativity, bear witness to the joys and pains of the world, and transform sorrow and stagnation. Please enjoy this issue!

Ancient

The drunken swiftness of the waves
Calms me 
From a reverie of unpredictable marches
A lost song of victory and losses
As she possessed the divinity of all things
Things high and low lay bare 
The stratum of bounty Hastings
The unnameable spoken mantra, the soma of life
Lying all over the fringe of all things
Knitted in a divine mastery
I knew the ancient waters, the green scenery
As the rivers comingle with the ever chanting song fare. 

Heralding God’s Magnificence

Lord, thank you for grace
For you are with me always as I run my race
Inspite of my nakedness, you shield me with your lace
By faith, I can move mountains
For you’ve made me an ace
Christ is my base
I can’t be shaken by life’s rays
For in God’s presence, I’m more than all mays
And in Christ, I put my enemies at infinite bays
The Lord God is in charge of my case
For His word is greater than what anybody says
His death on the cross is greater than all my big pays
So, I’ve chosen to serve Him, Grace!

(D)

We Are Children!

We make the world go round

but we are taken to the ground

We make ourselves ready to be used

but we are abused!

We make the world a proud place

but we are pushed aside in many ways!

We make up the figure

but we  are not shown the gesture!

We make forgiveness our priority

but we are faced with cruelty!

We make the truth our watch-word

but we are influenced by the Liar’s Rod!

We make the world one

but we are treated as none!

We make freedom play out itself

but we are stuck in the growing years of  self!

We make ourselves happy at school

but we are not just cool!

We make our elders better brethren

but we are children!

I graze soft flesh and skin

of my face, and claw at 

the bones of my soul, give

it back to the earth, some

type of undivine truth,

atheism, repenting

The world offers itself,

to those who look deeply,

it prays simplicity,

(maybe the more whole we

make ourselves, the more whole

we will be)maybe it 

is that simple(maybe

The prairie animals 

do know best and)content-

ment really is that clear, 

I know simplicity,

I am able to feel

(hatred, joy, and disgrace the

people and things earth holds)

Though, through and through(truths, lies)

I am still a lone piece,

(of nothing but beauty,

as i see it)and I

taking pride, respect(earth),

that decision, which made,

shows life of intention

My dissatisfaction 

mocks the earth and regrets 

my existence, however,

beauty, irrevocably,

is seen in the conscious:

A mother can have sex,

(and just as similar)

a daughter can have sex,

and naturally, we

forget to surrender

(To the present moment),

and intervene the wild

family of worldly,

unaccounted for (moments)

When we were teenagers, our parents would take us to Maui every four or five months for an extended holiday. In charter school we could get away with bending the attendance requirements more easily than in public school.

     My father, Edward Crowley, was flush with riches from selling his software company, ‘ExQuizit,’ when he was fifty years old to some billionaire in Silicon Valley; my dad transitioning to high-end consulting for another few years. He was a superstar game maker with amazing brain power which was only overshadowed by my mom who worked as an aerospace Engineering Program Director at NASA; both of them retiring before they hit fifty-five. As soon as they retired, they purchased two luxury beachfront condos in West Maui.

       Sally and I were the luckiest two teenagers in Northern California. As twins, although fraternal we looked much alike except she had wavy strawberry red hair and I had bark brown hair, a dullish color. Sally got the blue eyes from my mother and I inherited eyes like my father, so dark brown that they resembled some exotic animal eyes, with light amber flecks dotted around the centers; eyes noticeable to everyone who met me. So much so that I often wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t start up every conversation with “Are you wearing special contact lenses to get that look or is that your natural eye color?” I felt self-conscious and wanted to deflect the focus on me. My sister was the obvious beauty but I got the attention because of my eyes.

          With the two Hawaii condos, Mom and Dad would stay in the spacious 2,000 sq foot one, while my sister and I would enjoy the cozier one next door. The condos were set so close to the sand that we could step out on our lanai and pitch ourselves over the short stone wall and be on the sand. It was a heavenly setting and allowed Sally and I to sneak out at night without my parents even suspecting. We’d be in Lahaina just down the road eager to catch a blues band or dance party in one of the local clubs, our favorite one just opposite the famous Banyan tree by the harbor. Our frequent trips to Maui as teens were during Lahaina’s heyday, years before the tragic fire which destroyed most of the town in August 2023.

               I sit in my parents’ San Francisco home looking at my sister as she stands on the other side of the granite kitchen island and prepares to bake cookies. Bowls filled with sugar, flour and butter all around her as she kneads the dough with a rolling pin on a grand rectangular block of wood. A half dozen plastic cookie cutters are set near the cutting board. A star, a pineapple, a plumeria flower and a few others make up the assortment. I pick up one of the three largest lemons I’ve ever seen thanks to her garden which sit in a bowl close to me.

                I pick up the biggest one and hold it up in the air. As if making an announcement at a competitive event, I say,
 “This one gets first prize. A State Fair record-breaker. The lemon to top all lemons.”

                Sally looks up at me with her baby blues, the last of her red hair peeking out from under a stylish multicolored black, beautiful custom-designed head scarf. She seems to force a grin. She’s not prissy now with her appearance like she used to be when dating some of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen. She wears tan or black loose-fitting clothes now but she still likes to wear color on her head. Her skin has turned a grayish tone.

                The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a month ago when I took her to see ‘The Lion King’ musical in San Francisco. It was three days after her sixth dose of chemo this time around. She wanted to see ‘The Lion King’ specifically to get ideas for creative and colorful head scarf fabrics. I surprised her with front row seats during breakfast the same day as the performance. The experience paid off as now she has at least ten African-inspired scarves to cover her almost bald head.

 “So, Dizzy,” she says, “what shape of cookie would you prefer today? Star fish? Plumeria flower? Pineapple? Wait, how about this Dolphin?”  She holds up the powder blue cookie mold.

              Sally was the only human on Earth that I permitted to address me as ‘Dizzy.’ To everyone else, I was Desiree, whether I was at work or socializing. But since I grew up as ‘Dizzy’ in our family household, Sally still had the a-ok to use the nickname except as we agreed, never in front of other people. She respected my wishes most of the time. But Sally was a sassy girl and woman, and on occasion would slip up and shout out “Hey Dizzy” in a crowded department store or movie theatre, and then make fun of my soured reaction.

“Oops,” she’d claim.  “I totally forgot that you don’t like that,” then flash me her apologetic protruding top lip.
                I look at my sister as she dances around the kitchen, Blondie playing on Alexa in the background. Sally is twirling holding up the dolphin cookie mold in one hand and the starfish in the other.

“Which one strikes your fancy, Dizzy girl?” Both of us are thirty-six years old now, and both of us, unwed. Sally was engaged two years ago until the uterine cancer entered the scene. And then our parents were killed shortly thereafter in a small plane crash off their treasured island of Maui.  Dad’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk, which he called ‘Kitty,’ went down in the Pacific Ocean close to a beach in Hana which was situated at the far Eastern end of Maui. He flew his plane at least two or three times a week, and on that fateful day had taken Mom with him, something he rarely did since she frequently got migraines when flying.

                  The shocking tragedy occurred on one of their trips to the island where they’d typically spend more than half the year. Dad possessed a pilot’s license which he had for over fifteen years when the fatal accident occurred.

                  We never really found out the exact cause of the crash. Operator error or mechanical failure? The results of the NTSB investigation were fuzzy at best.

                   A part of me thought maybe Dad, who was almost 77 years old and my mom who was a year older, had actually pre-planned their demise. Why would they have done such a thing? I struggled thinking about it.

                   But I was good at puzzles and this one I felt I had figured out. For one thing, they had done everything there was to do in life; toured the world several times over, owned a beautiful spacious house in San Francisco and two luxury condos in Maui, donated and led charity events for endangered animals throughout their retirement and were committed to their marriage until their dying day; including renewing their vows in a formal ceremony.

                   They knew that Sally had uterine cancer which was diagnosed a year before Sally’s planned wedding. It crushed them to see their daughter in constant pain and going through half a dozen surgeries as the cancer spread from her uterus to her stomach. But Sally went into remission for a few months until the cancer came back with a vengeance. As soon as she found out she broke it off with Doug, her fiancée, a successful high-tech venture capitalist, a few weeks before Mom and Dad were killed. She said she had fallen out of love with Doug but I knew the resurgence of the cancer played a key role in her decision.  

                    As her twin, I felt what she felt. I knew she was secretly broken-hearted and didn’t want Doug to be tied to her long-term health issues. He didn’t seem shattered enough to beg her to re-consider. The wedding was cancelled and she gave back the two-carat engagement ring.

                     Mom and Dad were worried sick about Sally; both of them, eyes red with grief every time I saw them, fighting tears in front of their sick daughter. Away from my sister, I sat in their living room one afternoon and tried to comfort them which proved useless.

“You guys doing okay?” I asked. “What can I do to help you through this? It’s tough on you, I know.”

“She’ll be fine,” Mom said. “We just know it.”

“Sally’s strong as an ox,” Dad added. “You don’t need to worry about us.”

They didn’t want to admit the degree of their concern but it was written on their faces. I suspected that they thought that if they talked about it too much, it might be a jinx to Sally getting healthy again. And I knew that Mom in particular, although brilliant, was superstitious.

So, in family gatherings they both smiled, and talked about everything under the sun, avoiding Sally’s cancer. Yet Mom accompanied Sally routinely to her doctor’s appointments and Dad to all of her chemo sessions. He’d hold her hand as he sat for hours in a side chair while she received the chemo. He’d talked to her about trips he’d like Sally to go on with them to places like China, Africa, Rio de Janeiro and maybe even Lithuania. Sally told me about their chemo conversations and how his bad jokes made her smile while the infusion pump did its job.

                And then my mom leaked it to me privately that Dad was in an early stage of Alzheimer’s and had wanted to keep it from us until after Sally’s wedding.  

                 When my parents booked a trip to Maui halfway through Sally’s run of chemotherapy sessions, I felt ambivalent. But Sally encouraged them to go, not to worry about her. I promised to sit in for Mom and Dad, and take time off from work which was part of my company’s benefit plan. So, off they went. Mom hadn’t told my sister about Dad’s Alzheimer’s since she felt Sally had enough to contend with in the coming weeks. Eventually, she’d share that with my sister and requested that I be quiet about it in the meantime.

                  With Dad’s Alzheimer’s and Sally’s cancer, it felt unnatural for them to leave California, and frankly, it wasn’t like them to disappear during such an intense time in our family. And so, the whole picture led me to consider that perhaps my parents were done with living and wanted Sally to inherit their fortune including their spacious home in San Francisco, so she’d be set for hopefully a longer life. I didn’t think either of them could bear to see their daughter die or go through Dad’s descent into his illness. Sally didn’t have solid medical insurance because of her self-employment, thinking she’d be healthy forever.

                   Sally and I never discussed my hypothesis about our parents’ deaths but I knew this possibility had also crossed her mind, especially after I told her about Dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. My parents left almost all their savings and one of their Maui condos to Sally who moved back into our birth house within a couple of weeks after they were killed. I received $150K, and the smaller condo. I understood what had motivated their decision-making process. And, my career as an employment law attorney was flourishing. I was up for full partner in a high-profile firm in Silicon Valley. My townhouse in Palo Alto was more than two-thirds paid in full. At 37, I felt more than financially secure.  

                   When Sally and I locked eyes at the funeral there was that unspoken understanding between us. The crash may have been intentional, pre-planned. She was my twin and we often communicated without spoken words. 

In Sally’s San Francisco kitchen where my mom had prepared all of our holiday meals and baked us lavish birthday cakes over the years, I watch my sister rolling out the dough for the cookies she’ll bake, while her body is filled with cancer.

“Dizzy girl, which cookie shape do you prefer? She asks.  You listening to me, Sis? We’ve got all these choices, so…”
“Wait, I have something for you,” I blurt out. Rushing to my purse sitting on the sofa, I pull out a small flowered paper bag, and hand it to Sally.

“Chocolates for me?”

“No, something better,” I say.

She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and opens the small bag.
“A cookie cutter. Oh!” She places it on the counter-top. “It’s a Banyan tree. Wow.”

“Just like the one in Lahaina,” I say.
“Yeah, now destroyed.”
“No, I heard it’s growing back little by little. It’s still fragile but it even has some long branches now.”

“Well, thank you. I love this.”

“Me too. I saw it in a shop in Santa Cruz last weekend, a shop full of Hawaiian products called The Banyan Tree. I had to get that cookie cutter for you. It’s a sign, Sally.”

“A sign, she says. “I think it’s a Banyan tree Dizzy girl, not a sign.” She looks down at the dough, sprinkles more flour and pushes the rolling pin back and forth.

“It’s a sign of hope for your recovery. Your wellness,” I say.  

             She looks up at me, her moist blue eyes glistening.

“You want this one, then?” She holds up my gifted blue metal cookie cutter.

“Yes Sis,” I say. “Bake me a Banyan tree.”

Linda S. Gunther is the author of six suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach and Death is a Great Disguiser. Most recently, Ms. Gunther’s memoir titled A Bronx Girl was released and is available on Amazon. Her essays and short stories have also been featured in a variety of literary publications across the globe. In April 2025, her play titled Listen While You Work was produced and performed by Inclusive Theater in Buffalo, New York. www.lindasgunther.com

‎Who AM l

‎Who is there?
‎A shadow.
‎Who is here?
‎A simple shadow.
‎Who is in my heart?
‎A complex shadow.
‎Who is in your heart?
‎A compound shadow.
‎Who is all around us?
‎Shadow, shadow and shadow!
‎Where is man?
‎He is absent in everywhere.
‎Where is woman?
‎She is absent in………. .
‎Where is humanity?
‎It was buried before civilization.
‎Where is conscience
‎It was killed before dawn.
‎Where is property?
‎It is in our breath.
‎Where is life
‎It is always past.
‎Where am l?
‎I don’t know.
‎Who am l?
‎A mummy of time.