War

Smile not exist

Happiness is stopped

Hungry stomach

Hungry soul

Enough

Tired from the bodies

That are afraid of their shadows

I would like to have a man who speaks truth

Who act

Who believes

In power of love

Words

Silence is not the answer

When Sun rise

Moon is a light that

Give birth

To our dreams

Action

We can only trust

When the reality

appears

We don’t need

so small minds

We are here

to believe

In our thoughts

And in our principles

When the miracle

is happening

Only Flour

Can give the solution

To a hungry mouth

Eva Petropoulou Lianou is an official candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize, nominated by four organisations in 2024. She’s an international poet and the President of the Global Federation of Leadership and High Intelligence. She’s the founder of Poetry Unites People.

THE SYSTEM OF HEROISM AND ITS CRITERIA

Andijan State University

1st-year student

Rakhimberdiyev Ozodbek Rasuljon o‘g‘li

Abstract:

This article explores the conditions and principles of the heroic system in folk oral creativity, as well as the tools and weapons that help establish this system. The study examines the manifestations of heroic motifs and the use of combat weapons in the epics “Alpomish” and “The Birth of Gorogly.”

Keywords: Heroic system, folk epics, patron saints, inert society, celestial bow, auspicious birth sign, heroic suffering, figure of Khidr.

It is well known that in heroic epics there exist figures of alp heroes—brave warriors who devote their lives to defending their homeland. The main distinguishing feature of heroic epics, which separates them from other types of folk narratives, is the presence of the heroic system that embodies constant ideals and immutable values in the collective consciousness of the people. The heroic system represents the artistic expression of the unity of concepts characteristic of heroic epic creativity. It is unique to this genre and rarely appears in other narrative types such as legends or fairy tales.

Below we will examine the main conditions and criteria of the heroic system.

1. Divine Patronage Before Birth

First and foremost, the future hero is believed to be under the spiritual protection of divine beings or erans even before birth (in ancient epic tradition, the alp was considered a direct descendant of the gods). For instance, in “The Birth of Gorogly”, celestial beings such as angels, spirits (chiltons), and Khidr, the leader of the erans, play a guiding role in Gorogly’s birth, upbringing, and heroic deeds.

Similarly, in “Alpomish,” the hero’s divine favor and spiritual guardianship before birth is described as follows:

“After forty days, a voice was heard from the garden:

‘Boybo‘ri, God has blessed you with twins—a son and a daughter.

Boysari, you have been granted a daughter.

When you hold a feast for their birth, I shall come as a wandering dervish and name the children myself.’”

This scene reveals that every alp possesses a spiritual patron—a guardian or mentor figure symbolizing divine guidance.

2. Prophecies and Omens at Birth

The second criterion involves the hero’s birth under an auspicious star or celestial sign. Often, priests or soothsayers from rival lands foresee the hero’s arrival and attempt to destroy him. While this motif is not vividly depicted in “Alpomish” or “Gorogly”, it is indirectly referenced in Alpomish:

“When the enemies heard this, they said:

‘This boy is extraordinary, blessed with divine favor.

None can match his strength—even at seven years old he performs mighty deeds.’”

This acknowledgment reveals the enemies’ sense of envy and helplessness in the face of divine destiny.

3. The “Pain of Heroism” (Alplik Dardi)

As the hero matures and surpasses his enemies, he experiences the pain of heroism—a spiritual trial that represents both individual and collective renewal. In Alpomish, this is reflected in the “zakot” (tribute) motif, symbolizing the hero’s moral and spiritual testing. The hero becomes both the redeemer and the sufferer for his people. His mistakes and triumphs mirror those of the entire nation. Thus, the pain of heroism becomes a metaphor for the ethnos’s rebirth and awakening.

4. Connection Between the Hero and the Erans

Another crucial feature of the heroic system is the relationship between the alp and the erans. The erans spiritually strengthen the hero’s body and soul through divine light and sacred drink, granting him supernatural powers. They teach him the mysteries of heroism and reveal his earthly destiny.

In Alpomish, this connection is manifested when Alpomish receives his bow from the erans, when he spiritually unites with Barchin, and in the guidance of his elder companion, Qultoy. Qultoy declares:

“The mark of Alpomish is this:

On his right shoulder lies the imprint of Shahimardon Pir’s five fingers,

And on his left, my own hand’s mark remains.”

Thus, the heroic system forms the very “spine” of the epic—embodying the idea that true heroes are those whom even death cannot defeat.

5. Sacred Weapons and Companions

In epics, heroes are never alone—their loyal horses and supernatural weapons are constant companions. These instruments not only assist the hero in battles but symbolize divine power and destiny. As folklorist Shomirza Turdimov notes in “Uzbek Mythology and Folklore”, the heroic system can be reconstructed through twenty-one features observed in “Alpomish” and “Gorogly.” Among these, two central attributes are highlighted:

The heroic horse that accompanies the alp through trials and transformations.

The sacred weapon received from divine beings or through ordeals, symbolizing the hero’s spiritual strength.

In “Alpomish,” this takes the form of a “fourteen-batman celestial bow made of birch,” while in “Gorogly” it appears as the “fifteen-batman sword bestowed by Ghaus al-Ghiyath.” These weapons transcend the material realm, embodying the hero’s divine mission and identity.

Conclusion

The heroic system is an inseparable component of every epic. The actions of heroes—protecting peace, restoring justice, and defending their homeland—deserve eternal reverence. Through their depiction as symbols of unyielding will, strength, and courage, the alps inspire younger generations to cherish and take pride in the heroic legacy of their ancestors.

References:

Alpomish: Uzbek Folk Heroic Epic. Narrated by F. Yo‘ldosh o‘g‘li, recorded by M. Zarifov. – Tashkent: Sharq, 2010, pp. 93–94.

The Birth of Gorogly: Uzbek Folk Heroic Epic. Narrated by Muhammadqul Jomrot o‘g‘li Polkan. – Tashkent: G‘afur G‘ulom Literature Publishing House, 1967.

Turdimov, Sh. Uzbek Mythology and Folklore. – Tashkent: Fan, 2023.

Jo‘rayev, M., & Eshonqulov, J. Introduction to Folklore Studies. – Tashkent: Barkamol Fayz Media, 2017.

Mirzayeva, T., Turdimov, Sh., Tillayev, A., Jo‘rayev, M., & Eshonqulov, J. Uzbek Folklore. – Tashkent: Malik Print Co., 2021.

Turdimov, Sh. Uzbek Mythology and Folklore. – Tashkent: Fan, 2023.

Madayev, O. Uzbek Oral Folk Creativity. – Tashkent: Mumtoz So‘z, 2010.

Rahimberdiyev Ozodbek was born in the Bostan district of the Republic of Uzbekistan. He is a student at Andijan State University, Faculty of Philology, majoring in Philology and Language Teaching: Uzbek Language. He is a member of international organizations. His creative works have been published. He is a student and an online teacher. He holds international certificates. He writes poetry and articles. Many of his students have received national and international certificates.

IN THE SHACKLES OF YOUR SILENCE 

Under your name, the night trembles within me.

In my chest, a bound flame moans.

Like a cold darkness, love stretches me upon its rack.

Your shadow drinks my breath.

My bones remember your touch.

Within me, centuries collapse without you.

Like spilled gold, my sorrow flows.

Your eyes — two abysses above my soil.

My heart bears the shackles of your silence.

My skin is a book of your wounds.

I have written you in my own blood.

I have carried you through my own ashes.

Into your voice, I placed my final peace.

And when I sink, your shadow will remain in me.

And when I fall silent, I will still long for you.

Milana Momčilović was born on April 4, 1999 in Vrbas. He currently lives in Srbobran, a place near Novi Sad in the Republic of Serbia. She published the collection of poetry TALISMAN.

She doesn’t like to talk about herself, so in the end she can describe herself through the verses of Sergei Yesenin: “What am I?” Who am I? I’m just a dreamer, whose sight fades in the fog and mist, I lived along the way, who can dream, like many other people on that earth.”

Sparrow Wars

I

Sludge water dripping

into an already clogged pipe.

Blood in my microscope, torn out

like a diary page, necessary to

analyze the ingredients.

Will the wound lift? be inverted

into a creative windstorm or

a nemesis spread,

spidery-vein spreading

until the curse is complete

and conquers?

I know love is alive,

and that hot and sudden

is the joy that stems from a miraculous shift.

I know building comes with the morning,

comes like brimming sorrow and goes

to a final destination like all things final,

temporary, broken and sliced down the centre –

undergoing a brutal mitosis.

II

Empty tables

clawed apart within

with spikes a-blazing on the edges,

and the light of the moon

high in the sky,

hardly visible.

Time is a dust heap I roll inside of,

never making a dent

or relieving my extremities from

the grim cover.

Beaten by the relentless overwhelm

and the digging dream that digs further down

more than ever before, pulled in by

gravity unspeakable and charged.

Living each day bent over, cane-walking,

repeating anguish, shooting pain and dough-bread

kneading, never baking, never

consuming.

III

When grief comes

it comes at the maximum degree

of chaos, doubt and all things

unsustainable.

Even there, in the squander and grave

disadvantage, I will surrender to trust,

protect the embryo of my new understanding

as precious as it is,

as the only intention worthy of holding,

clinging to despite the toxic smog encircling,

twirling over my extremities, nose-diving into

my internal organs, shutting me down.

It is there and its power is the past, old.

It is able to kill but I am not afraid.

I hold the jewel of this glowing budding faith

and that is all I will look at.

My heart is crushed, undone by the weight of grief

but my soul is tiny blooming. Let it be key.

Let everything be where everything needs to be.

Both are real. Only one will have authority

and receive my attention, elixir formed, a trickle,

ingested.

IV

Drum beat

no beat

I raise my arms

and scream hosana.

The drawers are empty

hunger parts my soul

into quarters. Stand up

and take account, no one

is listening.

Four months of stagnant emotion,

upheaval at the roots, planted again

somewhere less familiar and less fecund.

Faith and despair overlap, cross paths, join

together as a new entity.

Who understands? There is no understanding

to be had, only the ceramic bird on the shelf, winking,

and the air, heavy and humid one minute

and cold, oxygen-free, the next.

In my mind is an argument

existential, without possible resolution.

In my core there is shock at the terror

of disintegration, and for how long?

How much more? And still there is more.

In my being, I knew God

came with mercy, with Jesus and the peace

of infinity – washing clean, a soft joy

without degrees but only flowing, showering, eternal.

In between I wake up and I cannot see forward,

I listen, but I cannot be one with what I hear.

Holy Spirit, holy, do not escape me,

be clear, re-construct my devotion,

find me my union seed, to plant and tend to

simple devotion.

V

Jesus, you let me live.

I will sit with you

hand in hand.

I know you

in my personal crisis –

faith obliterated, reseeding

in a lucky garden.

I will trust you with all my problems,

with my anxiety like a dysfunctional

city, polluting the roadway, the airway

with its violence and indifference,

I will breathe easy, knowing you are here,

that you own it because I give it to you

and reckoning is rescue, in your hands,

miracles are coming – life changing,

a kinship with your divinity.

You are sovereign, my still-point, my doorway

into perpetual redemption.

I will collect the fruit and sit beside you,

eating together – no hunger, no hurry –

You and I, I with you, you

holding my hand.

VI

When I see the unseen

in a twisted longing

death-circle fantasy,

irresistible hope,

and drive to make that hope happen

even though

I am not a citizen of that land,

not meant to come forward

and shine with those deeds,

then I fail and live for an

illusionary future, creating a

hellish now, ripe with lack

and disappointment.

Bend on your knees, bow

to the one-name of God,

feel the slap of sobriety,

the consequences of depending

on your own wit and power

which is like a gnat trying to cross through

a tornado or a choir that sings without

glorifying.

I am learning that being conceived

and being re-conceived

is the cure for fear, the fire

that watches a greater fire,

burning enough,

releasing enough

to rejoice and just burn, a light, a warmth

transient, but elementally,

in this way, everlasting.

VII

It is hard to hold purpose

when purpose no longer holds you

when the single curtain seals the window

blocking the sun and sky,

making you blind so you only touch corners

and never a door.

All things lost their ownership, just wandered

aimless, squandering energy like tossed pebbles,

no pattern, sinking.

Governance failed, was only an imagined

corridor leading to a chaotic marketplace

that doled out meals, lacking nutrients and staying power.

Each shape to take and hold and shift from each day

was hard labour, exhausting to perform,

pretending hope existed when hope had abandoned.

I was not afraid because my fears

were pushed hard into my face,

swelling my eyes so they could only see behind.

Death won out over the light, won obedience –

the middle and opposite, smelling.

Death smells bad

smells like an inevitable succumbing

to rot, betrayal, rendering

endurance useless

and even the holiest of faith debunked.

There is a string before me,

thin and golden and unbreakable.

There is something I see I never saw.

I have collided with the consuming tyranny death,

felt it swerve and twist through

every vein, enter, break my heart,

break the truths I had before.

The string dangles,

dripping down from

of my inadequate cries

and a mangled prayer,

comes shining a faint intermittent glow.

It is small and so am I, minute,

hardly there, but there.  

VIII

If I talk again,

I will keep my end-mind twisted

so it cannot speak or formulate

a plan.

I have no constitution for plans

or wherewithal for achieving

human-made provisions.

If I talk again,

silence me into prayer,

conversing only with the angelic order,

strengthened by devotion and the power

of obedience.

If I try to be a player,

remind me of my meek capacity,

sting me with regret and slap me

into a state of surrender.

If I try to enter a world not my own,

laugh at me, call me out

and put me in my designated low-chair place,

a dreamer, advancing

no further.

IX

Falling away like before

launching water at the moon

then releasing it, scattering it

onto a lifeless surface.

Songs and singing are murderous,

selling the false business of a buffet

inspiration, and poetry, like a sober

prayer or pleading, blossoms in a place

where no one comes or looks or even cares.

Things that once stretched

with divine determination towards health,

now fall backwards into addiction and defeat.

Chaos always hovering at the entrance door,

violence a few footsteps away.

Idealism once trapped in my mind has sieved through

incrementally and now in my mind, a faint flow

of tainted possibility, mostly consumed by despair, mostly

non-existence, more hesitant than youthful,

more resigned than risking.

The days drive on the same,

and how I wish I was in a state

of conspiratorial superiority

or in a social bliss of nonchalance.

How I wish I could be like I used to be,

believing despite the odds,

calling for help and receiving it.

What is this weakness,

this futureless waste of now,

pressing on all my joints,

an aching misery perpetual?

What are these days

when I can find no hope

to master this tortuous doom?

I am removed. A thin slice everywhere

between me and reality. Only sorrow brings

me near enough to touch, only happiness lives

inside my dreams or in my memories,

stripping the peel from the fruit,

dropping it to rot in the mud-marsh with the rest

of my wearied hold on merciful possibilities.

X

I don’t see

the far-reaching joy

to build a future on,

just disappointment, false-starts,

isolation and how can-that be?

I don’t see

but I know the builders take their time

to make sure what needs to be aligned

is aligned, that broken hearts can

become hardened hearts

and hope is dangerous for those who are desperate,

perishing at the foot of the mirage.

But there is a noble prophesy to follow,

to stand by and wait for.

There is true love, love that alters bitter grief

that wraps your love in its healing balm until

it blooms and your dry throat is

finally soothed, your wounds are rewarded,

transformed into strengths exposed,

safe on the marriage altar.

XI

Time does not help

to lessen the sharp scream

of amputation, or to help gain

a way to cope, maimed as I am,

lacking resilience.

Prayer does not answer

any questions or bury the emptiness

outside of my body, allowing

room that can be filled, even with only

a faint groaning microscopic creation.

Love that sits beside me,

day-after-day, holding my hand,

stays with me – miraculous devotion –

helps while it is there,

but does not stop the welling-up of sorrow,

that will not ease or be appeased

in solitude or by distraction.

Faith is a word that sparks

but cannot ignite. I sink down again

on my broken knees. I cannot rise.

I try and I try, but

I cannot overcome.

XII

God do you love me?

Everyday I fall short

of receiving your love,

blocked and stalled and wading

knee-deep in sewage mud.

I cannot take a step. I cannot

hear you anymore or

feel your mercy move the spoke

a mile, an inch, a fraction of

a way out of this criminal sleep,

arrested every day.

I try to take a breath,

try to step but I cannot

move. Please God, show yourself

to me again. I am aching all over,

joints on fire, mind – ablaze in jet-fuel burning

heat, tired all the time, cut off

from your glory.

Cut off no matter my prayers

and my pleas.

Please God, take my hand,

recognize me as one of your own.

I long for you.

I need your grace

to lift me, now,

trumpets calling,

advancing, only with you,

loved, permitted.

XIII

A hive blasted

by poison.

A blood-letting

in crave of a cure.

Two close-together cliffs

jumped across, looking

closer than they are.

In the whirlspin of a fall –

arms broken, extremities blasted,

crying out for someone from the angelic order

to swoop down and placate the pain.

But no angel-being arrives and what is broken

remains broken, deformed and starting to heal

that way, into a permanent liability.

Even then, when stuck thigh-deep in forsaken ground,

God is close, washing our cracked bodies,

cradling our defeat, saying

My Love doesn’t always answer with a clean slate

or a put-on spell so all hurt is forgotten,

not a trace left traceable. Sometimes

My Love just sits with you, beside the pain,

lets you know I am here,

here, in the empathetic love of others,

here, in your own resilience each morning to carry on,

here, in your determination to stay close to me

as you anguish and ache,

unable to walk or fully wake,

seeing that nothing turned out

the way you saw it

in your times of highest harmonic resonance

the way

you were sure it would.

XIV

Will you speak to me again

like before death cracked my windpipe

like when death still hovered thick in the air

but you were there surrounding everything

with the weight of your love?

Will you answer me again

cooling my shape, giving back force

to my petering-out flame

so I can grow again, still tied to your mercy

and the joy of having dreams?

Will I know you again

despite my mutations

and the iron that rotates sickeningly

in my core, using my energy

for lesser aspirations?

Will you love me again

and I will know that love

igniting its current through

my every predicament,

bonding me unbreakable

to your side, inside

your privileged embrace?

XV

First thing,

you are here.

I wake up and we are talking,

merged in a matter-of-fact

conversation. My need, my only way

to take a step in the morning.

More and more, without you, I can’t

exist or comprehend a thing.

Then why this endless desert, the

hard bloated boils erupting

every time I do move?

How is it, you are here, but there

is so much pain still, so much struggle

just to keep alive?

How do I feel so close to you and need

you more than I ever have, have you

more than I ever have, with such

drought and trembling-burns burning everyday,

throughout the days, echoing – no medicine, no food,

just you and I in this high heat,

where I am barely capable,

but somehow capable.

XVI

Then the bitter defeat

was burning like a sin

committed, recognized

and unforgiveable.

Then on a hill, heavy with

weighted down legs and

an injury there, debilitating but

unexplained, the challenge came

to walk.

Walk slowly at first, walk like

I can walk even though the reins

are dropped and I have lost my mother,

lost life’s victory over death and the comfort

of an unbreakable love broken,

altered, intangible now as an angel’s skin

or a hope held for decades unrealized.

Walk with my mortal burden, stumbling without

a path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist

in my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.

Face a direction, walk, slowly,

commit and make it my own.

XVIII

Soak the born

in their own initial conception

to remember the pure-memory-pockets,

the truth of miracles.

Underline everything that matters

and read it again until no small word

is skimmed over or taken for granted.

Open the shelter doors and let all animals

in, wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.

Free with a blessing

every dream that isn’t false,

and follow your deepest duty –

both desirous and undesirous divine commands.

Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.

They grow limbs that look like light but exclude

humility and the thumb-print of surrender.

The atmosphere is big,

the button-hole is small.

I am small when I toss

my self-determination out as wisdom

and fail at every turn.

Mercy comes with obedience,

obedience comes with trust, and then finally

freedom.

The dying are trapped in their wounds.

The living, in their success at survival,

but the gift is always

open for everyone, and changing

even without core movement.

I have a boat and that is all I own.

I see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.

I see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.

Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and six chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com

Life Bird

A life with a tree is like a bird

Floating in the wind for many years

The breath of life is mixed with the air

That image emerges clearly with every breath

Just like the bird that flutters in the sky,

Fluttering wildly in the waters, awakens

When all the sleep of the world is broken

In the gentle light of dawn

What a wonderful sweetness mixed with mountain trees and shrubs!

Transplanted before my eyes

You are intertwined with a tree for a lifetime

Years are passing by in the wind

The ants are climbing in rows.

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.

Transient summer

The transient summer.

Restless and

weary rain are

silent and beautiful.

Deep forest near

the mountain ledge.

Unexpected rain

soundless and hazy.

The dreamy

grasses are covered with

blue light shadows

behind the mountain.

The cloudless

skies are

bright and lonely.

So beautiful was that night.

Mrinal kanti Ghosh, India He is a lyricist for All India Radio Calcutta. He has written many books of poetry, novel and short story. The names of his books are as follows: 1. Atmabairi 2.Sudhu rtis jannaya (Funded by West Bengal government) 3. jodi chole jai 4. Nairite nisarga namey 5.Ami se o somudra (novel) 6. Ekhane akash nei 7.Suranjana (English and Bengali) 8.Chayapathe saresrip bikel 9.Bideshi kobita (transcription of poetry in English and Bengali) 10.Dhupchaya nir 11.Nirjan sayanhey joytshna 12. Shely 1. Bangladesh award 2.Certificate from different countries. He has given certificate. He is a musician. He plays guitar (Indian classical). His other two books are under process. He is also an Astrologer, He believes in Astrology. He also believes in Rebirth/Regeneration. The poet also wrote a rtist poetry on Rebirth/Regeneration. His other book is going to be published on Rebirth/Regeneration.

The Northern Town and its Water

In the small town there was an old library, a few churches, and even a place where they sold worms for fishing and nearby, in the summers anyhow, a corn stand. I only realized far after that I never brought my bike there, such as in stories and films. If I could go back, I would have, for a bicycle fits a town and one could go on adventures and take more pictures of the local flora and fauna.

Yet I still have much memory in the mind’s eye and a few photos from walking. I used to fish off the shore walls and near little bridges and no matter what theory says, worms always got the fish to bite or at least become curious and nibble more than any metal or plastic lure. There were wooden bridges and stone ones, and moss and rocks and the sun-bleached parts caught my eye whist people generally were friendly and many of them waved. 

There was a series of canals and though they go in Northern Ontario it was based off a model of waterways from somewhere in Europe. These waterways, often called ‘intercostal,’ can be found in southern Florida also. They are often secondary homes or cottages, and I suppose that means upper middle class or affluent populaces inhabit them. Or old timers that simply always lived there through the generations. Maybe each situation is unique, and they can’t exactly be categorized. 

I remember the winters frozen and sometimes an ice fishing hut or series of them could be viewed as one looked from the purlieu of the lagoon intercostal waterways out to the white and grey lake frozen and crystalline-like under a December or January sky sun laden. That would make a good landscape painting for someone, some soul involved in such, and often as I walk summer fields and meadows or winter hills with vistas, I have the passing thought whimsical of wishing I knew a painter to talk about all with. In fact, I should have lived in older times where letter writing, where true soulful epistolary was the norm. But, in lieu of not having a confident or artist contact I’ll tell here…

The area was big, several square kilometres and none of the houses could have basements for the water could go in and that would be problematic. The dwellings were built on piles, telephone poles wooden and probably chemically stained to preserve them. Some houses were bungalows and nondescript with simple screen doors and others towered over the earth maybe up to four of five stories tall, and those usually had expensive power boats over forty feet long outside of them bobbing up and down a little bit in that lake water. 

And it was quiet while someone watched the nice world there and the change of seasons. Boat. Book. Walk. Reflect. Even pray or meditate. Repair a bird house wooden or sit on the porch and watch the world go by. When we went to church, so long ago, the old man that gave the exegesis about the gospels used to say that his goal should be the same for his community. And what was his goal? It was for his maker, his God, to simply say in heaven when the day arrived, to say about the life one had lived on earth, ‘Well done good and faithful servant.’ 

~~~~~

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. The Book of Love and Mourning, a third collection of prose poems and landscape photographs, is set to be released in winter 2025.