The Land of Learning

In the land of learning, we take our stride, 
Education's power, like a gentle guide. 
With books and pens, we embark on a quest, 
To seek knowledge's treasure, we do our best. 
Teachers lead us, their wisdom bright,
Unlocking doors, our minds take flight. 
In classrooms, dreams bloom and fears subside, 
Education's gift, our world open wide..


Wazed Abdullah is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj,Bangladesh.

The computer

Computer is very important for us.
It is a great invention from the inventors
It helps us in many ways.
Scientists use it for many researches.
Satellite is a part of modern computers.
It helps the researchers,
To find cyclones.
X-ray is a great invention of modern computers.
It helps the doctors to find break bones.
Computer helps the doctors,
To find many sickness.
That is a great help,
For the patients.
Computer has made a great miracle,
In the research of space.
Scientists can explore,
Moons and Mars using these.
Computer has made easier,
The worldwide communication.
That is very useful for us.


Don Bormon is a student of grade 8 in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

AN EPIC WRITTEN ON CLOUDS

We fell in love, loved each other,
We know that the world is like heaven.
We saw two faces of people,
We realized that everywhere is like a dungeon!
The life of birds became interesting,
There was no sorrow, pain,
He would study all day long,
They loved each other from the heart!
We did not obey the riches of the Earth,
Two hearts united, we flew to the sky,
Away from everyone, to hardships,
We built a nest above the clouds.
We never got enough of seeing eye to eye,
We didn't get tired of wondering around,
We didn't get angry - we didn't reconcile and we didn't break up,
We could live a lifetime of love!
We wrote an epic on the clouds,
We spread love to all humanity,
We came down to earth and gain the honest,
We took the soul from the body and ascended to the sky.


Elmaya Jabbarova
01.07.2022

Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, translator. Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African’s CAJ magazine, Bangladesh’s Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.

Aim 

There was a man named Nizam, 
He killed 99 people and couldn't calm. 
He felt ashamed and wanted forgiveness, 
He treated it as a challenging race. He went to a Sadhu to get a way, 
But Sadhu disappointed him and Nizam found no way. 
Nizam killed the Sadhu as he was angered, 
And had gone to another Sadhu with a view to his need. 
Nizam had to go a place Sadhu said at last, 
Nizam tried going fast.
But the angel of death came and Nizam died, 
Can Nizam see the path of light? 
Now a divine angel want to take Nizam's soul, 
Whereas hell's angel said it was not the divine angel's role. 
The head of angels came to give a solution, 
Angel said measure Nizam's destination. 
It was more than the middle point 
The divine angel took Nizam's soul, 
Nizam was got rid off for his aim and goal.

PAPAVER RHOEAS

We are terribly alone.
And that is easily tolerated.

Poppy fields.
Flowers break their necks under the blue cover, their magnificent heads bleed. The rustling of the aspen is almost eerily soothing...
I guess that's how it happens before death.
The wind carries the voices of our mothers instead of pollen;

Don't touch those red flowers, your skin will dry out, you can die!

We stayed away from poppies, throughout our childhood and growing up,
we deftly avoided death,
for safety;
we chose white meadows,
picked daisies,
we wore white linen,
for peace -
white flags would flutter in our hands for a short time and we would lower them to the ground.

Sometimes we would meet
and on light fabrics
we would see each other's wounds, confused,
because we did not enter wild fields.
And it hurt.
And it hurts.

Our mothers did not know,
and our graves know;
that red petals reduce pain,
so, secretly, we rub them deep into the wounds,
and that the syrup from their blossoms helps children to sleep peacefully, that's why we constantly drink it from onyx glasses.

And we don't ask who,
we don't ask where,
we won't get anywhere
if we don't go ourselves
There(?)
We lie in the ground,
it will hurt
less 
everywhere
than 
here.


Azemina Krehić was born on October 14, 1992 in Metković, Republic of Croatia.
Winner of several international awards for poetry, including:
Award of university professors in Trieste, 2019.,
„Mak Dizdar“ award, 2020.
Award of the Publishing Foundation of the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, 2021.
„Fra Martin Nedić“ Award, 2022.

She is represented in several international anthologies of poetry.

VIOLIN AND ME 

In a bed of red silk 
you lie silent and wait for me.
My view is on the icicles 
which chained the window of my room. 
I look trough glass teeth in the distance to pine forest 
I breathe air with a set, you are here, but it is as if you are not. 
The memory of your sad sounds spoils my soul.
 I watch you in the corner by the fireplace, 
the dust has covered you, and the warmth spreads the smell of the past. 
I hear you in my mind, without touch, and I write a poem about you. 
Wrapped in a plaid robe, I sit in an old sofa,
 I'm afraid these old hands will touch you so I forget who you are? 
That's why I fantasize through a living film as if on the canvas of life, 
your sweet sounds and our sadness that we both share; 
years have passed and I'm still young in mind with you, 
I'm not old... Violino my dear! 


THE HOUSE AND YOU
 
Hang the coat of sorrow in the closet, 
the worn sinful heels in the shoebox with other torn footwear, 
sheet and anything on the bed that was absorbent 
all your sleepless nights bring out into the sunshine of oblivion. 
Then he frames his tear in a wooden frame and placed above the fireplace 
Let the heat ray set her free then when the time comes.
 Enter the children's room and remember yourself so small and carefree. 
Take a white cloth and wrap it around yourself in multiple layers of separation, 
Let your long hair down to caress your body.
Put a Beatles record in an old record player and sing along, with tambourine 
get out of the house you don't own, you created it yourself, 
thinking it belonged to you, but it didn't. 
You have no home in the world of transience. 
Know Him and invoke renunciation and dance to invoke heavenly love. 
Bricks dissolve into red dust from dancing, 
and you find your peace in the ruins
 and you realize only then that it was your house 
an iron cage that has an exit. 


Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia.
She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci's statement "Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard" is circulating through the blood.
That's why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them.
As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube.
Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers.
She is the recipient of many international awards.
"Trees of Desire" is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems "Moon Circle". 
She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists "Mountain Views" in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club "Area Felix" in Serbia.