What is my name to you? `Twill die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a Ione splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry...
`Twill leave a lifeless trace among
names on your tablets: the design
of an entangled gravestone line
in an unfathomable tongue.

Both naked, they just came out from the sea of the Samian
coast; from the sport of swimming
(on a hot summer day).
They were delaying getting dressed, hating to cover
the beauty of their sculpted nudity,
harmoniously complementing the loveliness of their faces.

Some light clouds float up in the sky,
and a light breeze wafts over the land.
Oh!
The light breeze blows through my hair,
how could I not miss her?
The moonlight is in love with the ocean,
and the ocean is in love with the
moonlight.

A storm thundered in the middle of the
night,
and awoke me from my dreams, startled.
I remembered my small yard
where a cassia blooms—
blooms with golden flowers.
I remembered it with bitterness.
Eventually, after tossing and turning,
thinking of it,
I still didn’t know what to do for it.

Bitter is his first night
and bitter is his first day
in a strange land.
Bitter were his boring nights.
How often he bit on his hunger,

SHADOWS AND OPENINGS

More on page 24 (Issue 5)

OR

Only a saint would wake
In a shawl of tears
Or possibly a child
Betrayed by the coldness
Of an unbearable dream
To face the mystery
Of yet another life’s morning
For waking means
Either bliss or terror
Depending on the reality
Of dreams
Or whether dreams fail
To bear real pain
Or pleasure of discovering

More on page 25 (Issue 5)

Mariela Cordero - Venezula

Translated from Spanish by the author

More on page 27 (Issue 5)

Mariela Cordero - Venezula

Eleonora Rimolo - Italy

Translated from Italian by Alessandra Giorgioni

The morning after
shards of bone and shreds
of epidermis were mingled
with iron:
the sun melted feeling
of pain passed
selfishness crossed
the platform, gliding,
the black angel lifted his
foot, climbed over
the slimy heights,

More on page 30 (Issue 5)

STARS STAY

Salah Elewa - Egypt

Translated from Arabic by the author

You keep wandering in empty seasons,
Where strangers feed their songs to fire for
logs
Mostly in tales where ancient tunes roam
in ancient winters.
Night after night ports keep aspiring to
stars
The tinkles of the poor man 's cup reach
the end of the alley
All dew’s words vanish when the sky goes
to sleep

More on page 31 (Issue 5)

Lord: it is time. This summer was immense.

Unfold your shadow across the solar clocks,

and across the meadows, unleash the winds.

Command the last of fruits to fill to shine,

give them another two more southernly days.

Compel them toward completion and then chase

the final sweetness into heavy wine.  

The birds that return to their nests,

though exhausted,

always return toward the setting sun.

Their wings flap,

and drop the setting sun into the river;

turns into crimson red, too.

Not that I cannot tear it with my fingers,

not that I cannot cut it with scissors,

but slowly,

gently,

and carefully I open the the lips of that purple

letter.

I know that inside the letter’s lips

hides her secret kiss.

I’m fed up with farewells. All those little

deaths time and time again: when you try

to touch them, they recoil like a small animal

Truly, my heart stops whenever I see the garden again

and the elder flowering into the timeless night,

and the path which I knew runs across

the common but did not know

where it ends.

Beside the path grew coltsfoot, nettles, and cherries

washed by dew or by rain. If I looked I might

Salmon are to be waylaid

when they are scared, cramming the water;

you have to let the net down where

the surface ripples with fins,

gills fumbling the desire

Propylaea – the definition of beauty

I create –

I resist against something

the air that envelopes my guts

retrieving memories and names

outside the limits of the wall