I heard the sound of familiar footsteps approaching our street. When I turned, I saw my old schoolmate standing there. I hadn’t seen her since the last days of high school, when she had suddenly married and left. Time had flown by. And now, she was at my door, carrying a tiny baby in her arms.
Her eyes were the same as before, her hair just as I remembered it back in tenth grade. It was as if the very girl I once knew had returned unchanged. Only the infant asleep in her embrace told another story — a story that had already marked her life with burdens far beyond her years.
I walked up to her and greeted her. My gaze fell on the child’s face, and my heart trembled. The baby looked exactly like his father, Qurbon. But the truth struck me like a cold wind — this man had denied his own child, refused even to acknowledge him.
“My husband now carries him in his arms,” she said, her voice filled with pride. “He treats him as if he were his own.” I stayed silent, questions echoing in my mind. It may be so today, but what about tomorrow? Will promises remain unbroken? Will this child’s presence one day be thrown back at him like a reproach?
Meanwhile, the baby slept peacefully, unaware of the weight of life, unaware of the wounds left by adult mistakes. Not even a year old, yet already a living orphan. His mother was still barely a woman herself, and his father had turned his back on the responsibility of being a parent.
As I held the fragile little body in my arms, a storm of thoughts rose within me. Who was truly at fault? The reckless choices made in youth? The blindness of love? Or the indifference of a society that lets such stories repeat again and again? I had no answer. Only one truth stood clear before me: the child was innocent.
My friend kept talking, complaining about another acquaintance, words spilling fast and bitter. I barely listened. My eyes were fixed on the sleeping baby, my mind trapped in a single haunting question: Whose hands will raise him? His uneducated mother’s? The stepfather who now shows him affection? Or the real father, who has rejected him, yet whose blood flows in his veins?
This question pressed upon my heart like a heavy stone — and no answer would come.
Dilobar Maxmarejabova, born in Yakkabog‘, Qashqadaryo, is a young writer and a second-year student at the Journalism and Mass Communications University in Tashkent. Specializing in English Philology, she is passionate about literature, poetry, and storytelling, and often reflects on themes of identity, resilience, and the beauty of her homeland. Beyond her studies, she leads youth initiatives such as the “Rivojlanamiz Club,” where she organizes literary competitions and reading circles to inspire creative expression among young people. Dilobar aspires to pursue further studies abroad and dreams of becoming a voice for her generation through journalism and creative writing.
And the voice of the question when it emerged from fear.
In the hand of the first human, it became a tool that holds life,
A spark that lights the darkness,
A ember that preserves the body from the cold of annihilation,
And the first line on the cave wall.
It was a home when a home was unknown,
A sky to seek shade beneath,
A ground that bears the tremor of a step,
And a language that speaks without letters.
From it the story was launched,
Upon it the cry was broken,
In its hollows the trace dwelled,
And through it, humans understood the meaning of being.
In all its transformations, it bore witness,
In the grave, a mark,
In the temple, a symbol,
In the crown, glory,
And in sculpture, immortality.
O you,
Silent one who thinks,
Heavy one who speaks with wisdom,
Secret one dwelling at the edge of time.
I AM NOT AN IDOL
I am not an idol,
nor a silent wall where your voice hides when it fears the void.
I am the breath of the universe when its chest feels tight,
and I am the wound that refuses to become a scar.
I am woman,
not a shadow that follows you wherever you walk,
nor a mirror that polishes your face to see your own glow in it,
but another face of truth,
questioning you when you long for forgetfulness.
I am not a stone that adorns your throne,
I am a wave uprooting silence from its roots,
and a land returning to the seed the whisper of eternity.
You want me as a chain,
but I want you as a journey,
searching with me for a meaning beyond flesh and blood.
I am not an idol,
I am a question dwelling in your eyes,
and an answer written only with the freedom of the soul.
I am woman,
and if you understood me…
if you stood before me without fear and without dominion,
you too would become… human.
A TEST FOR CONSCIENCE
In the silence of closed homes
The stone bleeds from the heat of bodies,
And the gaze of shadows trembles in the corners of the soul,
As if time itself fears to witness.
The hand that strikes is but an echo,
An echo hiding in the hollows of the heart,
And a letter lost amidst the silence of screams,
A soul learning to live without a voice.
In every wound, a river of questions is born,
And in every tear, the philosophy of existence takes shape:
Is freedom merely a distant dream,
Or a secret hidden in the depths of anguish?
The woman is not merely moving silence,
Nor a stone dwelling between walls,
She is a light slipping through the cracks of pain,
A river flowing despite the chains,
And wisdom that cannot be broken by the striking hand.
Every fracture teaches the stone to dream,
Every tear gives the shadow new colors,
Silence becomes a cry,
Pain opens gates to light,
And resilience births a new horizon for life.
Violence against women is a test of life,
An experiment of human awareness,
A test for conscience,
And where the soul endures,
Light springs from the depths of the stone,
And dignity learns it cannot be killed,
Silence becomes strength,
And freedom echoes in every heart that remained silent,
Until the world understands that true power
Lies in respect, and in enabling the soul
To bloom without limits.
BRIEF BIOGRAPHY:
TAGHRID BOU MERHI is a Lebanese-Brazilian poet, journalist, and translator, whose writing carries echoes of multiple cultures and resonates with a deeply human spirit. Born in Lebanon, she currently lives in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, after spending significant periods in various countries, including eight years in Italy and two in Switzerland, where she absorbed the richness of European culture, adding a universal and humanistic dimension to her Arab heritage.
Taghrid writes poetry, prose, articles, stories, and studies in the fields of thought, society, and religion, and is fluent in six languages: Arabic, English, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. This allows her to move between languages and cultures with the lightness of a butterfly and the depth of a philosopher. Her works are distinguished by a clear poetic imprint even in the most complex subjects, combining aesthetic sensitivity with a reflective vision of existence.
To date, she has published 23 original books and translated 45 works from various languages into Arabic and vice versa. She has contributed to more than 220 Arabic and international anthologies, and her works have been translated into 48 languages, reflecting the global reach of her poetic and humanistic voice.
Taghrid serves as the head of translation departments in more than ten Arabic and international magazines, and she is a key figure in bringing Arabic literature to the world and vice versa, with a poetic sensitivity that preserves the spirit and authenticity of the text.
She is renowned for her refined translations, which carry poetry from one language to another as if rewriting it, earning the trust of leading poets worldwide by translating their works into Arabic, while also bringing Arabic poetry to the world’s languages with beauty and soul equal to the original.
She is also president of Ciesart Lebanon, holds honorary literary positions in international cultural organizations, serves as an international judge in poetry competitions, and actively participates in global literary and cultural festivals. She has received dozens of awards for translation and literary creativity and is today considered one of the most prominent female figures in Arabic literature in the diaspora.
Her passion for writing began at the age of ten, and her first poem was published at the age of twelve in the Lebanese magazine Al-Hurriya, titled The Cause, dedicated to Palestine. Since then, writing has become an inevitable existential path for her, transforming her into a flower of the East that has spread its fragrance in the gardens of the world.
I was disturbed by this phone call in the last month.
RAIN IN MY EYES
The rainbow appeared
behind the lines of rain,
the worries and troubles of stis,
carved verses
where the west burned,
in the braided flower,
we put a wreath.
You can’t see the rainbow
it didn’t rain a little,
in my eyes…!
METAMORPHOSIS
(Loraa of New York)
Loraa asked me to imitate Odysseus,
not to listen
sirens of the deep,
nor the poet’s erotic verses
in the rocky waves of the sea.
In New York he studied Pythagoras,
the language of mimicry read the unspoken word
wrote it in saltiness,
where life is a dream
and the dream becomes life.
The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,
the seagulls danced
over our heads,
deep sea conception
shivers run through,
air in New York
I missed the thrill of life.
Lan Qyqalla is an Albanian writer, editor-in-chief of the EliteOrfeu International Magazine, winner of several national and international literary awards, member of the Albanian-American Academy of Sciences and Arts in New York, and Director of the International Poetic Festival “Poetic, Literary and Artistic Heritage in Kosovo” for 17 editions, and Professor at the Gymnasium in Pristina. The poet from Kosovo has published more than 67 works (poems and stories) in languages including Albanian, Romanian, Francophone, Swedish, English, Polish, Arabic, Hindi, and Mandarin. Some of his poems have been translated and published in several languages and in several magazines and literary portals. Qyqalla lives and creates in Pristina.
Mirta Liliana Ramírez has been a poet and writer since she was 12 years old. She has been a Cultural Manager for more than 35 years. Creator and Director of the Groups of Writers and Artists: Together for the Letters, Artescritores, MultiArt, JPL world youth, Together for the letters Uzbekistan 1 and 2. She firmly defends that culture is the key to unite all the countries of the world. She works only with his own, free and integrating projects at a world cultural level. She has created the Cultural Movement with Rastrillaje Cultural and Forming the New Cultural Belts at the local level and also from Argentina to the world.
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.
with William Butler Yeats —Temple Bar, Dublin once famous for friars and printers and clockmakers now in its yellow dressing gown, intoning: a river of vomit, a run of stags, hens, the final whistle, a moon like a sack of flour garrisons the sky, Bill picking up those Derry Girls at The Old Storehouse the bend between breath and silence like the shoulder of an Armalite O they sang American Pie while we drank and watched some troubled fool equine in length take a piss from atop a phone booth on Dame Street I couldn’t get the song out of my head for days Bill kept turning and turning the poem in his like Wilde’s address to Liberty naked I saw thee Shay and your slow thighs and skin like fine bone china the night a revelation or bad news on the doorstep.
