Invisible 

Twisted river meeting at a crossroad 

The olive branch of a tree 

Beckons the scarce dim light 

Day in — day out!

Falls the luminance woefully 

Facing the light of hope this farewell hour 

The boat settled gently. 

A labyrinth maze,looming large 

Traveling indistinct into the unknown territory 

Flowing cadence of icicle tears —

Till the volatile gazed from the mountain vale 

There returns the warrior of solitude 

Reaping crops of green— 

And the river merges into the sea being limitless 

A piece of golden spring sang, an autumnal proffering.

Detaching To Become Whole

There’s no (Magical) ‘Elixir’

… fix yourself,

with much patience.

Create compassion,

and eat your own fill first.

Recognise any unfairness

directed at you,

in a detached way,

whilst also realising

your part in the proceedings

… continuing to interact

with mean, selfish people

(I’m being polite here)

after discovering their truth,

is foolishly accepting 

a future ‘Energy Exchange’.

The best lessons 

are learnt through 

‘Trial and Error’

… accept yourself,

and acknowledge 

each tree ring of growth…

as you gradually become

a (Self-Sufficient) ‘Universe’. 

Reflections on Charred Landscape, 1960

I wasn’t cheating; I was lost all afternoon

in Lee Krasner’s ‘Umber Paintings’

… I’ve become a different person now.

I’ve witnessed friends 

taper ‘romance’ into ‘comedy’ eventually

… and I can’t quite forgive them for it.

I blame ‘Agape Love’

for turning glorious, burning sunsets

into ordinary things

… no God’s watching as we lose Glory.

Kafka’s nervous mental fidgeting

is more ‘Common’ than you’d imagine

… I see where your curious footsteps

are leading you… and I care too much

to watch your ‘Bright Colours’… Darken.

Yes, That Was Clever… But 14 Dominoes Along Is Where Things Get Sticky

Apparently, Alec Guinness enjoyed partaking

in teasing and gossiping…

I’d rather go straight for the throat! 

Your ‘Talking Tough’,

but behind the posturing

your essence (what little there is)

reeks of musty old man’s corduroy breeches.

Some ‘Dodgem Car’, while others ‘Ballet’

their way through the haphazard day…

both ‘Knife-Edge’ and ‘Country Walk’

are relevant and needed… to keen and slick

our continuous rotations

along and through the ridiculous ‘Circles’

that help us progress up to Levels 

which the comfortable never end up reaching.

More Hand-Me-Downs, Please

She explained, matter-of-factly

… read Jung and Nietzsche,

and all of those other 

heavy hitters, by all means.

But, hand in hand…

I would suggest listening

to ‘Old People’, last lap

and backwards looking.

Not about their successes

and achievements, loves

and travels, moments of pride.

No-no: their regrets, missed

chances, wrong turnings,

the times when they 

foolishly painted themselves 

into frustrating corners…

with doubt, hesitation,

nonchalance and arrogance.

Then, how they learned to live

… and carry on, filling once 

empty hands, and smiling again.

No-No… I’ve Got This

Becoming a Mountain to the Storm

takes TIME…

from leaf, to bough, to tree,

you must shake, bend, and bre/ak.

Keeping the furnace 

hidden yet aglow 

deep within your Heart…

adapt, and face the external World

exactly as it is, without blinkers on.

This will HURT…

your Soul will stretch upon the rack

of incomprehension, disgust,

and dismay… until it AGES.

The Transformation

must ROOT…

from within; no ‘masks’ will do…

your ‘Strength’ must grow

Independent of everything 

but your own ‘Logic’ and ‘Intuition’.

Until There Is No Breathing Room Outside Of Your Craft 

Massive, like Johanna Van Gogh-Bonger’s 

‘To-Do List’… Talent is a gift

but Master Artists are built

over an entire lifetime of slog and grind

… crawling through nightmares,

rejections, addiction, violence,

imprisonment, abandonment,

insanity, poverty, defeat, exile

and every other layer of hell imaginable…

just to grasp the fragile POWER

of being able to alchemise 

‘moth wing powder’… smudged…

along the decaying corpse-lips

of a long-dead ‘Love’… through

the sherbet-kisses of a new Summer

Romance… and out into the tight-walk

of an Autumnal Partnership… augmenting.

Wrong Poem For Adrenaline

Spiritual ‘Retributive Justice’ is not a sentence

… (Karma is running concurrently,

just as always)… but like Embarrassment,

it’s a momentary Punishment

meant to trigger an inner awareness…

that, besides certain behaviours

being wrong/criminal/abhorrent

… there are Internal ‘Consequences’ also.

‘Lingering’ is damaging and futile…

Ego has no place in ‘Lesson Learning’,

The Trial is over… and your character

can not only heal, but also grow…

from that unsettling and unpleasant experience.

A Stark Escape

My shadow leaves me on the sidewalk,

and walks alone

down the street across from me.

It slips out of me,

from the soul’s hidden recesses

where the unsaid finds a voice

upon my tongue.

It needs no shoes,

no umbrella,

no cigarettes…

It never checks its pockets

the way I do.

It crosses on red,

heedless of passing cars,

or storefront displays.

It greets the shops

I no longer dare to walk past,

and smiles at passersby

I know by name.

When it sees an unfamiliar face

wearing the very clothes I wear,

it disappears behind

an abandoned sing.

It resumes its walk

when realizing that

it was not me who saw it,

as though forever

it were fleeing my body,

footsteps have grown heavy,

and it alone breaks free

of a name called “I.”

Mustafa Abdulmalek Al-Sumaidi, Yemen

THE AGONY OF A RED ROSE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Why do people try to pluck me,

to cut me off from my mother, the plant?

Why do they snatch me

from my mother’s loving lap,

and tear me away from her

before I am ready to depart?

I am very sad,

I do not like to see

Human beings near me;

Their hands look gentle,

Yet they carry pain within them

for flowers like me.

I was born in my mother’s arms,

I bloomed beneath her tender care;

her leaves were my shelter,

her roots my silent prayer.

Why must beauty become a reason

for someone to cause despair?

Let me live where I belong,

Let me breathe upon my mother’s tree;

Let me bloom, let me dance with the breeze,

Let me remain wild and free.

Do not make my fragrance

A reason for killing me.”

Said the red rose to me.

I became very sad

to feel the agony of the beautiful red rose.

Its silent petals seemed to whisper

A truth deeper than words:

Every flower longs to live,

And every mother longs

to keep her child close.

I looked at the rose

And lowered my eyes

For in its trembling petals

I saw the tears of nature,

And in its broken silence

I heard humanity’s cries.

Anil Kumar Mishra, India

Love Reaction

Your love makes me shine,

Your kindness makes me feel,

Your heart is a pure heart,

Realising everything matters.

You know how much I care about you,

It reflects love.

Which encourages me,

 for further development steps.

You are reasonable for my healthy good thinking,

Your pic in my mind pushes me,

Force me for innovation and creation.

New hope, light & hard work.

You are beside me, my atmosphere is cool,

I got more energy from energy,

Every day create new dream, new achievement,

Because you have with me, it is reaction of love.

Date: 15.09.2026

Amb. Dr. Priyanka Neogi is from Coochbehar. She is an administrative controller of United Nations’ PAF, a librarian, a CEO of Lio Messi International Property & Land Consultancy, international literacy worker, sports & peace promoter, dancer, singer, reciter, live telecaster, writer, editor, researcher, literary journalist, host, beauty queen, international co-ordinator of the Vijay Mission of Community Welfare Foundation of India.

Why Does the Sun Go Down?

Do you know why the setting sun goes down?

Perhaps the world has worn its light away.

Perhaps this world has made it wear a frown,

And so it sinks beneath the weight of day.

The heavens wept for every faithless deed,

While feelings drifted softly with the breeze.

Perhaps for this, God gave His servants night,

To hide their tears in darkness, if they please.

Perhaps the sun itself grew tired with pain,

Its warmth no longer strong enough to stay;

It feared its fire might burn the frozen hearts,

Or blind the souls who could not see the way.

The sun does not descend for no design,

Perhaps it tired of those who broke their vows;

Perhaps it saw the oath-breakers too often,

And sank beneath the burden of their blows.

Perhaps it would have burst from all the lies,

From hypocrites, false tongues and slanderers;

While those who sleep beneath the cloak of night

Still call themselves the rightful, righteous ones.

The wounded souls endure the darkest night,

Yet moonlight whispers: dawn is on its way.

And night, too, will not leave its place in vain—

It knows the coming light will bring the day.

No human being can dispense true justice;

An unjust world deceives its own poor heart.

So let it go, O heart, and trust your Maker—

He is the One who gives true justice its part.

Justice will not simply fade inside a book;

Do not demand it from the lying crowd.

For nights themselves must fade and disappear,

Because the sun will rise, though not aloud.

The sun does not go down without a cause;

The night does not arrive without a dawn.

So let the world be judged by One who knows—

For after every night, the sun comes on.

Xasanova Aziza Kumushbek qizi was born on October 1, 2004, in Chirchik, Tashkent Region, Uzbekistan. She is currently a student at Tashkent University of Economics and Pedagogy.

On March 1, 2025, she was awarded the title of “Faculty Zulfiya” in a competition organized by the university in recognition of her academic achievements and active participation. She is the author of several scientific articles published in various academic journals and conference proceedings.

Her poems, short stories, and other literary works have been published in numerous newspapers, magazines, and online platforms around the world. Her writings are regularly featured in countries including Albania, Pakistan, Italy, the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, India, Argentina, Türkiye, Saudi Arabia, Uzbekistan, Kenya, South Korea, Bangladesh, Romania, and Greece.

(Exile Hymns for a Drunken Man)

— The Hymn of Intoxication —

(1)

The wine is drunk,

And the light’s voice is dim,

And words are extinguished,

And nothing remains but a white dove

In her hand, a peace offering…

Two wine glasses and two roses,

And a bed of ages, and there are “two lovers”

So when will the scent of mint waft

From the heart of words?

And today there is no language

Nor any meaning to the journey of the daisy!

…

The wine is drunk,

And meaning is addicted;

 Every poem comes to you with dizzying letters…

The poetry isn’t yours,

Nor do the rhymes stir you when they arrive…

Distribute your worries and lean on silence.

For time is wounded by place…

…

The wine is drunk,

And the harbor chants its essence,

And the sea searches for its lecture,

And the wave recounts the oar’s tale

In the chaos of wreckage…

And seagulls on the horizon

Playing without your awareness,

And the water purifies you, exiled one

In the marble islands…

…….

—The Hymn of Exile—

(2)

On the Ground Floor

From the sorrow of slander and gossip…

What do the rumor-mongers say?

Ninety twists and turns and wretched corridors,

And pregnant homelands,

And a courtesan sleeps…

From which lamp

—Here on the Ground Floor—

Will the light come? From which window does the sun shine?

From which daisy?

Fear comes, then goes,

Then it comes,

Then the place commits suicide…

On the ground floor

They tremble with fear

And break from the recklessness of darkness…

Are the spiders’ webs at the entrance to the corridor stronger,

Or are the doves their dwellings?!

Or am I a stone that has made the summit of exile its pillow

To forget that it sleeps at the bottom of the world?!

… What do the alarmists say?

And the wind comes!

And the white horses come!

And the doves?

And I lie with the navel of exile

And embrace the wine…

Hani Al-Fahham of Yemen