I am Wahab
My reading teacher used to call me
"Little Lamb" My mother called me "Feather"
She'd confine me to the room during storms
So, I wouldn't fly like last time
Upon returning from school
My friends would call me a "Rocket"
I'd swallow the streets like an aspirin pill,
Leaving no one ahead of me
Now I am still Wahab Rolling
Like a cylinder on rugged ground
Next to a wall leaning toward collapse.
By Wahab Shereef Translated by Faleeha Hassan …….. Wahab Al-Sharif is an Iraqi poet, born in Najaf in 1961. He is a member of the Union of Authors and Writers in Iraq. He holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism and media from the University of Baghdad. He has published 22 poetry collections.
Mobile Phone
There is a mobile phone
It is not my own.
When I touch this phone
My father tell me gone.
It is my dream to buy a phone
So that I can use it all day long.
People use mobile phone must
But it is harmful to us.
Md. Amir Hamza is a student of grade seven in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Sorrows of Losing Mother
In quiet dark night, her voice is gone,
I miss her where she once stood strong.
Tears fall in the light,
Sadness feels like the dark night.
Memories bring a deep pain,
Love stays though hearts feel the strain.
In dreams, her smile brings peace again.
Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Whispers of Rain
Raindrops tap gently on my windowpane,
A soft serenade from the gray-skied domain.
They dance and they play, a liquid ballet,
As if the heavens weep in a quiet display.
Each drop a memory, a tear from the sky,
Falling to earth, bidding sorrows goodbye.
They kiss the leaves, caress the ground,
A symphony of solace, a healing sound.
The rooftops shimmer, streets come alive,
Petrichor rises, memories revive.
Umbrellas bloom like colorful flowers,
Shielding dreams from the tempest's powers.
In the city's rhythm, rain finds its beat,
Puddles mirror reflections of souls incomplete.
And lovers seek shelter, hand in hand,
Their laughter blending with the rain-soaked land.
Don Bormon is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Trees
Beneath the azure sky so wide,
With tender care and hopeful pride,
We plant a seed, a promise there,
A gift to Earth, a breath of air.
In soil rich, the sapling grows,
A silent vow the future knows,
Green leaves will dance in morning light,
A shelter born from dark to bright.
Each tree a guardian, standing tall,
A haven for the great and small,
Roots dig deep, their strength to share,
Whispers of life in the forest’s care.
So plant with love, with heart and hand,
A verdant dream across the land,
For every tree a story sown,
A legacy in green, our own.
Muntasir Mamun Kiron is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.
Unexpected Sustenance
Under the summer sun, which had lost its strength, the three friends didn’t even have time to take their hands out of their pockets, and when they were returning from school, their eyes suddenly fell on the folded and dusty money under their feet. They struck themselves with money, and they talked about who found it in the noise.
«Whose, whose, whose?» - while shouting, not even a human voice could be heard from around. One of the children suggested that it should be divided equally among the three, while the second one wanted it not to be divided at all. And the third child, who was younger, his imagination could be seen flying in the silence
like a free bird.
With a smile on his face, yesterday the neighbour Umida was heard whispering prayers while gazing on the moon. He was clapping with his hands in joy at the thought that came to his mind: «Let’s do a favour?!» - he said.
While the children looked at him questioningly, the boy took them by the hand and ran towards the store without saying anything .Forgetting to say «hello», he asked the shop owner to give him something for breaking the fast.
His friends were surprised and said with a smile: «What, there is nothing at home?» After shopping with all the money, they went straight to Umida’s house. After straightening her headscarf,
Sister Umida with a radiant face turned to them. With a heart full of love, the boy was staring and holding a package full of dates and fruits in his hand saying: «Bless us also in your Iftar prayer.»
While stroking the boy’s head, Sister Umida prayed, «May what you find be gold.» The two friends standing behind him did not raise their heads from the ground until their faces turned red…
Nosirova Gavhar was born on August 16, 2000 in the city of Shahrisabz, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. Today, she is a third-year student of the Faculty of Philology of the Samarkand State University of Uzbekistan. Being a lover of literature, she is engaged in writing stories and poems. Her creative works have been published in Uzbek and English. In addition, she is a member of «All India Council for Development of Technical Skills», «Juntos por las letras» of Argentina, «2DSA Global Community». Winner of the «Korabl znaniy» and «Talenty Rossii» contests, holder of the international C1 level in the Russian language, Global Education ambassador of Wisdom University and global coordinator of the Iqra Foundation in Uzbekistan. «Magic pen holders» talented young group of Uzbekistan, «Kayva Kishor», «Friendship of people», «Raven Cage», «The Daily Global Nation», Argentina's «Multi Art-6», Kenya’s «Serenity: A compilation of art and literature by women» contains creative works in the magazine and anthology of poets and writers.
Not Crying Baby
Under the rubble, the collapse of the wall,
Sits a three-year not crying kid,
In the screaming hell,
Like a wild beast from the sky,
Among the layers of exploding roofs.
With the stroke of eyelashes
Blood drops in the eye,
Sliding on the check.
Small hand silently rubbing the eyelid,
Palm red spots for the first time.
Stepmother- war mixes with the dust
Mop of chestnut hair tenderness.
Splinters dug into the snow white feet.
My angel, what are your faults?
Well, at least cry, baby,
I’m no longer able
To look into your innocent eyes.
You are my clean world,
You are more than all!
So you lived
I have died a hundred times!
Nigar Nurulla Khalilova is a poet, novelist, translator from Azerbaijan, Baku city, currently living in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. She is a member of the Azerbaijan Writers Union. Nigar N. Khalilova graduated from Azerbaijan Medical university, and holds a Ph.D degree. She has been published in books, literary magazines, anthologies and newspapers in Azerbaijan, Russia, Saudi Arabia, and the USA over the years.
Nigar N. Khalilova participated in poetry festivals and was published in international poetry festivals anthologies and in the Austin International Poetry Festival (AIPF), 2016-2017.
