THE STONE

It is the awakening of beginnings,

A pulse born from the silence of ages,

The first memory of existence,

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.

HELLO…

Hello! Hello!

the voice hums like in a cave,

I had forgotten the color of the voice

in this agn of late month.

Hello, hello…

the voice on the other side shuddered

in the raging river,

-Yes I am,..

here.closed in the ego

“gnosi” the lip timbre,

turmoil of times

or late spring?!

Hello, I’m Lora,

nothing important

in me the shadow of longing

affects the absorbed nectar

in search of immortality…

I clutch the phone

I feel stuck in water, who revives my fire?

Mekur in late May?!

Hello, Hello…, listen to me!

I am the sin-ridden Danaide,

why don’t you talk to me

why are you silent?

…I can hear you on the other side,

 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.

I loved you…

I loved you…

I loved you madly and passionately…

You drank my kisses

With your malicious mouth

You broke my bones

With embraces disguised as passion…

You took my heart in your hands

You wounded it, you dressed it in betrayal…

You buried my corpse

In absolute darkness

Of lies and depression…

I loved you

I gave you everything

You couldn’t hold back

You know nothing of love…

Your lies

Your entanglements

Will only bring you loneliness,

regret and pain…

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.

i can’t get up right now

i think about you all the time

the silence is loud all around

noon never felt so miserable

strapped down to a bed, unable to speak

watching you rest as i take a seat

fragile, still, afraid, weak

that’s not who you were

all those times i sat down

not a word whispered or muttered from either of us

it killed you internally

there’s a spot for you in the living room

where you laid

where i witnessed your disease

where i look at our texts when i miss you the most

i’m afraid im forgetting you

i don’t want to forget you

your being taken away from me again

one day you’re there

then the next you’re not.

An Attempt To Have A Conversation With Your 15 Year Old Daughter

Hey Love

hi mom

Are you okay?

i can’t help but beg for there to have been another way

What have you been doing all day?

stuck sitting in silence without a mother to show to the world

You’re going to get bored here the whole day

not something i can control now that he’s in charge

Do not miss out on a nice day just for something that is not worth it

a lack of motivation my father contributes to

Is your dad bothering you?

when doesn’t he? screaming i’m selfish, a burden, useless

Let me know if he leaves. I don’t want him bothering you

he never leaves now that you’re gone

I can’t get up right now

you were never able to get up on your own again

Can you come over?

we’re worlds apart

Feeling better?

the lump in my heart is easier to maintain

You want anything else?

to talk to you in person, not through your old texts

You know i’m always here for you

you dont understand how much i want that to be the case

Love you

i love you too.

1. Please share your thoughts about the future of literature. Also, when did you start writing?

Actually, I’ve started writing since 2014 during the Israeli aggression on Gaza City. What inspired me to write poetry is the necessity to raise awareness about the Palestinian cause and convey a message to the Western world that Palestinians have been suffering since 1948 and we are looking for justice and peace.

2. The Good and the Bad. Which is winning nowadays?

I do believe that those who seek love and peace will win in this life because those who seek war will destroy themselves. Peace will make the world a beautiful place full of light and mercy whereas war will make it a horrible and dark place none can endure to live. Throughout my literary journey I’ve passed many good things and people who’ve me feel like I’m not alone in this world by showing their sympathy and support. I’m as a poet, I write poetry about how war affects us as humans and destroy anything beautiful. I write about the suffering of my people for years and how my people starve severely. I wish I could write about the beauty of my country Palestine and share poems of love and peace.

3. How many books have you written and where can we find your books?

I’ve self-published four books. Three are poetry books and the fourth is a short novel. The first book I published was ” Gaza Narrates Poetry”, the second ” When Hope Isn’t Enough”, the third ” Stolen Lives,” and the last was  “Falastin”.  I’ve recently published a poetry book with the great poet John P. Portelli called “The Shadow”.

Most of my books are available on Amazon.

4. The book. Do you prefer e-books or hardcover books?

What will be the future?

I’m looking forward to publishing a new book. The title will be “The Genocide.” It will contain more than 40 poems that I wrote during the ongoing genocide on Gaza City and the horrible experiences I witnessed.

5. A wish for 2025

I wish and only wish that Palestinians who have been suffering for ages restore our legal and humane rights and that peace prevails in this world.

A phrase from your book

“My loyal Cactus, Your thorns are more delicate than the hypocrisy of Humanity”.

” I’m still alive but nothing has remained”

Eva Petropoulou Lianou, Greek author and poet.

Ahmed Miqdad is a Palestinian poet and activist, awarded the 2025 Naji Namaan Literary Award.

Ahmed Miqdad (b. 1985) is a Palestinian poet resident of Gaza. He has a B.A. in English and a Master in Education. Ahmed is the author of three collections of poetry (Gaza Narrates Poetry (2014), Stolen Lives (2015) and When Hope Is not Enough (2019)) and a novel Falastin: The Hope of Tomorrow (2018). The latest poetry collection is The Shadow: Poems for the Children of Gaza. He has witnessed over three wars and severe aggression by Israeli forces on the Palestinian people since the 1980s with a huge loss of life. He writes and publishes to raise consciousness about the Palestinian cause.

The Living Orphan

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.

POETRY IS THE CRY OF OUR SOUL

Our interlocutor is one of the distinguished representatives of contemporary Azerbaijani literature — poet, writer, translator, linguist, pedagogue, PhD in Philology, Associate Professor, and member of the Writers’ Union of Azerbaijan, Firuza Mammadli.

— For you, what is the most important difference between prose and poetry? Which one reflects your inner world more fully and deeply?

— From the perspective of form, the difference between these two genres is evident. It is also true that both are products of artistic imagination.

Prose, as a rule, takes shape in terms of plot, composition, content, and expression.

Poetry, however, is realized within specific norms, relying on the accurate and purposeful selection and arrangement of poetic aspects hidden in the inner layers of language units — in other words, the semantic possibilities of words and expressions.

In classical Azerbaijani poetry — in forms such as the ghazal, qoshma, gerayli, lullabies, and others — this principle has always been preserved. Rhythm, harmony, rhyme, refrain, internal meter, syllable count, sound prolongation, and so on have been among the main elements that regulate the appeal of poetic thought.

In modern poetry, apart from these poetical-technical elements, the free verse form — which relies solely on the poetic spirit accumulated in the semantic layers of words — has also become one of the prevailing examples of contemporary creativity.

         In my view, poetry is a special state of the poet’s soul. It can be compared to a lightning flash that illuminates a single moment. Of course, in narrative poetry, in poems and verse plays, unlike in lyric poetry, the author needs time and lyrical digressions, which makes it difficult to liken them to lightning.

Poetry is the poet’s secret meeting with his own feelings.

Poetry is the rebellion of the silence within us.

Poetry is the outcry of our soul.

— You are a poet, a writer, a translator, and a scholar at the same time. Does working simultaneously in all these fields not cause difficulties for you?

— Poetry, prose, scholarly research, and teaching are the complete expressions of my public life. Each of them, being the product of both mind and heart, seems to wait for its own turn to be realized. A poem does not come every hour. Free moments, then, are more suitable for scientific research or prose.

— The serious obstacles and difficulties you faced on the path of science…

How did you overcome them? Today, how are young women being drawn into research, and in your opinion, what should be emphasized to inspire them?

— I did not face any serious difficulties while conducting my research. But completing the work and defending it cost me dearly. There were people who tried to obstruct my defense. I had written and submitted for defense my dissertation on the topic “The linguistic and stylistic features of Y.V. Chamanzaminli’s novels Girls’ Spring and In Blood*, dedicated to our incomparable writer, a victim of repression. During the defense, one member of the Academic Council — a pro-Armenian scholar — fled the session to prevent it from taking place. By repeating this act twice, he delayed my defense for two years. Finally, I defended the work and sent it to the Higher Attestation Commission in Moscow for approval. The same person sent an anonymous letter there as well. As a result, my work was sent to Turkmenistan for a review by a so-called “black opponent.” Only after receiving a positive review from there — which took another two years — was my dissertation officially approved with the title of Candidate of Sciences.

     My entire public activity has always been accompanied by obstacles and envy.

As for young people today, I do not see much genuine interest in scientific research. But my advice to young women is this: the path of science is difficult but honorable. When stepping onto this road, they must first take into account their inner world, their passion for the field, their willingness to sacrifice, and their readiness to endure psychological attacks. They must prepare themselves spiritually for such struggles. 

My second piece of advice is that if they cannot bring genuine novelty to their field, they should not pursue it merely for the sake of a title.

As for encouraging them, I cannot say I have strong arguments at hand.

— In literature, what is the most important concept for you? For example: the spirit of the era, the author’s personality, or the thematic problems of the work?

— Naturally, creativity values all three. Any work created is a product of its own era, carrying with it at least some information for the future about that time. For instance, the rich legacy of our writers such as M.F. Akhundov, J. Mammadguluzadeh, A. Hagverdiyev, N. Narimanov, and others serve as examples of this.

     In my view, the author, when creating a work, must present it from a completely objective standpoint, without displaying tendencies. Thematic problems, of course, find their artistic expression within the boundaries of time and space in the work.

— In society, do you think the value of people of art and science is adequately recognized?

— Unfortunately, no.

— What events in your life are tied to the concept of “self-sacrifice”?

— My entire life is the equivalent of “self-sacrifice.” Every step I have taken has been accompanied by obstacles, threats, conspiracies, intimidations, “accidents,” and deprivation.

The path I have walked for education, science, art, and profession I do not call a struggle, but rather a war.

— For you, what are the specific qualities of the image of a “woman writer and scholar”?

— A woman who is a writer and scholar must either not marry, or if she is fortunate, unite her life with someone who is understanding, appreciative, and values science and art as she does. Otherwise, if fate ties her to someone who pretends to be a poet without truly being one — that is a disaster… Among women of art, very few are fortunate enough to be happy in both family and creative life.

— As a woman, writer, scholar, and human being, how would you define yourself in a single sentence? In your opinion, what is science — to learn, to understand, or to accept?

— If I were a little younger, I would call myself a “hero” for having achieved all these titles (woman, writer, scholar, human). But now — at 85 — I call myself a “sufferer.”

As for learning, understanding, and accepting… Yes, science is learning, it is understanding, but I am not in favor of blind acceptance. If it represents absolute indicators of objective truths, then I accept — because that acceptance itself is the beginning of the road that leads to learning and understanding.

— How do you envision the literature of the future? With artificial intelligence, will not the emotions of the human heart lose their true value?

— If artificial intelligence is to create the literature of the future, it will likely be in detective or epistolary genres. Yes, artificial intelligence cannot fully express the subtleties of the human heart. It will mostly reflect what is encoded by its programmer. Motivated by the psychology of that programmer, it cannot, in general, acquire truly human qualities.

— In your view, how is the influence of women scholars in Azerbaijani society growing and developing?

— The rise in the influence of women scholars, poets, and artists in our country is an issue that requires special attention.

— Are there truths in our country that you have analyzed but never put into writing? 

While pursuing your dreams, have you ever felt yourself drifting away from your own self?

— In brief, to the first part of your question, I can say that there are many such truths, but I do not see the need to elaborate.

As for the second part: in my youth, such moments were frequent. Now I am far from dreams. I am a solitary dweller in the cell of bitter truths.

— Victor Hugo once said: “There is a sight more beautiful than the heavens — the depth of the human heart.” Do you think today’s poets and writers have truly descended into this depth of the human heart?

— No one can know another better than oneself.

The elders have said that poets are the engineers of the human heart. Yet only those poets who can transfer another’s sorrow or joy into their own hearts, and make those emotions their own, can descend to such depths.

At such a moment, poetry speaks through the poet’s pen with the cry of 

“I.” This, however, becomes an opportunity for critics to strike: 

“That poet only writes about themselves.”

In truth, some of those who read such poetry see their own sorrow in it, and read their own grief through those lines.

Among swimmers, there is even a branch called “deep divers.”

Likewise, for a poet to descend into the human heart, they must possess the nature of a deep diver — and the strength not to be wounded by reproach.

Furthermore, the lingering breath of “Soviet” atmosphere in public opinion and criticism still plays no small role here.

    Today, there are many who write. Naturally, it is impossible to follow them all. But descending into the depths of the human heart and bringing up pearls from there — that is not the task of every poet.

Jakhongir Nomozov is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.