Taifas Literary Magazine No. 8, February, 2021 by Ioan Muntean

tlm NN v1 - coperta1 titluri

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi

Khaled Mahmud Khan

Pakistan

Bangladesh

A Burden On a tree in front of my house, The dove had a nest. She had three nestlings. From morning to evening , she would feed them grains. She fed all the nestlings equally. What's left over after the nestlings eat, She would eat herself. Otherwise, she preferred to stay hungry. She had such love for her them in her heart, That she did not feel tired despite being tired. She rejuvenated them with great labor. Their hair and wings had not yet come out. And they could not fly on their own. They also loved the dove. At night, she would put them under her wings. And they enjoyed a good night's sleep. Even in the rain she would get wet. But she would not let the nestlings get wet. Slowly slowly their hair and wings came out. And they were able to fly. And they stopped paying attention to her. They parted from the dove. Each of them had a desire, That she did not stay with me but with another brother. She was old. But there was no one to take care of her. Alas, parents for the sake of their children, Spend their lives But as the children get older, So they consider parents a burden.

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*** Maybe love doesn't come every spring But spring is inevitable in every love There is no happiness in the green leaf curtain now Today there is no favorite face in the mirror of the mind Love just teaches to wait Waiting also shows the form of love When I forgot, I saw his eyes floating When I cry, my eyes smile Body-mind, emotion- was all over Just a little away from life

*** প্রতি বসন্তে ভান্ত াবাসা আন্তস না হয়ন্তিা িন্তব প্রতি ভান্ত াবাসায় বসে অবধাতিি সবুজ পািাি পিন্তে এখন ক ান সুখ কনই মন্তনি আয়নান্তি আজ আি তপ্রয় মুখ কনই ভান্ত াবাসা ক ব অন্তপক্ষা িন্তি কেখায় অন্তপক্ষাও যিন্তন ভান্ত াবাসাি রুপ কেখায় ভু ন্তি তিন্তয় কেতখ ক াখ েুন্ত া িাি ভান্তস াাঁেন্ত আতম ক াখ ক ন কয িাি হান্তস েিীি-মন,আন্তবি- তিন্ত া সব া জুন্তে শুধু জীবন কেন্ত িই খাতন েূন্তি TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

editorial 3-4

Paul Rotaru

Fiction – an artistic reality Because the editorial in the previous issue pointed out in passing the plausible character of a literary creation, here, we intend to develop this content in terms of lyrical dynamism. The position in which authors find themselves next to their works is, often, that of modeling the reality through the instrument called fiction, without which human perception would stagnate at the level of a relentless banality, in a flat world that would exasperate us by its uniformity. Where banality is queen, where the unforeseen ceases to bear fruits, the sharpness of ideas is smoothed, and the creative spirit vegetates in a mechanical existence, governed by automatisms. Thanks to the lyrical dynamism, aesthetics still keep ideas away from the risk of flattening – and it is the merit of the prolific imagination that fiction sometimes acquires the value of indisputable truth. Not infrequently, however, fiction has worn the dystopian vest to prove itself the product of a lucid visionary spirit, so it is appropriate to give more of our energy as readers to the phenomenology of inspirational origin. If, in the interwar period of the twentieth century, the realist novel cultivated the peaks of evil that man seemed capable of, post-World War II literature is easily detached from the immediate, verist and, apparently, transient turmoil. The latter does not want to, but is afraid to face a present of genocide practiced by virtue of demagoguery and the power of persuasion through dry ideas that speculate year I, no. 8, 2021, February

on the impotence of humanity in order to enmity with itself. Therefore, the writers sought to ignore the apocalyptic present, eager to imagine a future far from that present, but the tacit turmoil generated a picture of instincts that tend to conflict. And here, dystopian fiction has been deceived too few times, without which Samuel Beckett, George Orwell or James Joyce might not have existed. If Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov decline their fiction into true visions of social phenomena and futuristic technology, Nikos Kazantsakis constructs dystopia by reinterpreting the past, of course, under the dark and impartial valences with which the literature of the last century subjected the human to observation. Therefore, this literary genre shows us the looping movement of humanity on the itinerary of the conflict of forces, with unpredictable artistic manifestations, as when it is not the noise that disturbs drowsiness, but precisely its cessation. Here are the questions: is fiction an artistic reality and does it exceed the perimeter of the rigors by which the actuality motivates its norms in continuous transformation? Does the spectacle of banality have anything so sacred in it that human phenomenology cannot break the chains of cyclicity? The relationship between the actual and the fictitious, after generating a dynamic of dystopia just taking the sap of utopia, engages its entire system by juxtaposing and exalting values to the point of self-destruction, not by the specific antagonism of immediate expectations. On a small scale, meta-stylistic if you will, the fictional may seem a compensation, if not a potentiation of some social phenomena already consumed. But when the visionary

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

verb extrapolates tendencies and values in moral exercise, dystopia, if it does not initiate a reversible course, drifts until it is drawn to an utopian field at least as far away. Was communism an utopia? One more to which a terribly large mass of people joined. However, communism did not take long to ignite to the point of explosion, for it established as a dystopia in itself. The paradox in practice was favored by the same human beginnings that threw society into the post-apocalyptic carnage without resorting to psychological tricks. And yet, the notion of communism continues to stir nostalgic shocks in the hearts of some of our fellow men. What did the artists of those times need to keep their spirits clear in the face of systematic ideological oppression? Fiction, from which communism fed to recite its utopian sovereignty, and intimate fiction, which increased the strength of the spirit in the resistance movement against oppression. Most of the time, the end of phenomena like this is not without dramatic changes with long-term effects. In other words, the human ideal professed in literary masterpieces would fall prey to cynicism if we all believed that true ideals are never fulfilled. An unfortunate consequence is generated by the umbilical connection between humans and the concrete a priori, a concrete that is required to be validated in the Eternal Now. This inflexible Carpe Diem causes the stagnation in rottening of the critical frame of reference, hence the instinctual, primitive reaction of humans to trigger the inevitable. Of course, we must not give absolute value to any literary creation that approaches fiction as a dream or as a playful phantasmagoria. From this point of view, the fictional horizon, no matter how bold and volatile it is foreshadowed in the author's

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fantasies, is a simple artistic reality that is the object of exegesis and comparative criticism. But we must insist on the assertion that the literary ideal is the manifestation of a feeling that humans raise to the level of art through its intensity. Somehow, the human senses are augmented on the astral plane by the lens that gives that special, unique meaning to each passion from horror to happiness. Perhaps the assertion has proven that an ideal, the greater and farther it is from being fulfilled, turns into the madness of the idealist and, suddenly, fantasy becomes an inner, subjective reality, like a capsule separating the individual from the outer, objective reality. On the other hand, fiction is meant to strengthen the concrete, replacing the points obscured by various conjunctures with plausible rhetoric and behaviorist logic, as Stendhal brilliantly did in his works. English and Russian literature abound in unique typologies brought to psychiatric analysis. In addition, the universal novel of the twentieth century dared to observe the moral physiognomy of human beyond any limits of modesty and preventive reserves. The new millennium dares to explore, on an experimental level, a new way of expressing human nature and uses pornographic art as an extension of the aesthetics of the ugly. A subjective novel that freely lists even the most macabre phobias, the blackest obsessions, is mainly a fiction. But this does not mean that a patient with obsessive compulsive syndrome cannot write exceptional works in the consecrated area of infinite reverberated mania. People need to understand their fears and obsessions, verbalize them and deal with them as Best as they can, and uncritical censorship, chancellery and sterile formality TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

only aggravate the strengths of the individual as an author and of the society in its specific phenomena. That is why fiction, being generated by creativity and increasing the cognitive value of the imagination, is a real panacea for the psyche in need. Enough that the bipolar man has difficulty passing through the caudal forks imposed by the court of his own inner forum; but, if we amputate his creative spirit, he remains a mere fierce brute and attacks because that is how he was trained by our irresponsible, arbitrary decisions. Therefore, starting from the axiom that fiction is not entirely fantasy, because it is based on pre-existing concepts at its generating point, it remains to penetrate with more openness and skill the affective power, that is the driving force with a unique imprint for each person. Ghosts can occur against the background of a temporary imbalance, of an endogenous disorder, so to speak. But they personify desires and fears, accomplishments and nostalgia, so if they reach the enchanting world of artistic expression, they create true symphonies of ideas. And we must admit it: such manifestations of the creative spirit are the most contagious because, in their uniqueness, they defy the spectacle of banality. In the absence of artistic vision, human feelings in all their forms are subject to dialectical materialism whose sterility risks to contaminate flabby, unproductive thinking, devoid of individuality. That is why we should lucidly probe our own spirits before relating to others, preventing the delusion that large-scale phenomena occur naturally with all their harmful consequences. The confusing phases caused by the demagogic traps aim at the social orientation on the path of obscurantism, year I, no. 8, 2021, February

and those who see in this an expression of the general order, they contribute to the establishment and proliferation of generalized blindness. They are attracted by the reduced system, but with so many profound effects, which favored racism, xenophobia, contempt for those who can not help themselves. This reductionism of principles and values in the practice of contemporary discourse does not differ in any way from all the absurdities uttered by the most famous tyrants. Its reason is to mobilize a society in order to achieve a single goal, but ignores the particularity and forces the homogenization of characters that can work better together if they remain distinct. If all the people in a group are guided by the same precept, if they put their vital energy to the base of standardized thinking, that group is led to a behavior without landmarks that will inexorably confuse it in the instance imposed by its false governor. In the hope that the reader will forgive the passing with which we contrasted utopia and dystopia in the previous paragraph, we will end this editorial with the sentence that the rejection of fiction implies the inhibition of the creative potential. Imagination, we say it once again, is generated by the wide area of knowledge, it discerns, combines and homogenizes distinct notions into a unitary whole but with appreciation for what is heterogeneous. The wider the diversity, the greater the cognitive resources and the more prolific the inspiration. So dare to dream! Fiction is human in its naturalness and, therefore, reality is the art of fulfilling our most beautiful dreams.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

poetry 5-24

What are you thinking to see

Swapanjoy Chowdhury Bangladesh

After the word of love

The destroyed light of night. Is it your naked history? I know, some famished swarm of locusts Has destroyed your embroidered sewing field

A lock was hanging on the door of post office.

And the honor of silent world.

I couldn’t say you the sentence of love

Nevertheless, I order you to give up the desire

After the word of love.

of suicide To wear, to wear your grassy dress.

Post man busy for delivery cash money You are busy for earn money,

Biography of Swapanjoy Cowdhury

But I’m busy for flying sky.

Swapanjoy Chowdhury is a prominent poet, story writer and translator of Bangladesh. He is working as a Lecturer of Accounting in South Point College. Before that he worked in World Literature Centre ( Bishaw Shahitta Kendra) as an Assistant

I advertise the word of love On every wall of city. While you are going to College everyday To see the wall which are near about the tree of municipal You see for a moment, once again Then you can understand Which was the word after love I’m going to walk for long way

Do you want to go with me?

The lady who lost everything To wear your grassy dress

Coordinator. Publication: Poem: Patangabilashi Rastraprem(2011), Kaljatrar Snigdha Fassil(2016), Droho Kingba Poro Nadir Srot(2018), Mayer Moto Pari(2020), Gahine Aranya Nadi (2021); Banlgadesher Muktijuddher Chora Kabita Songkolon(2008), Ekusher Chora kabita Songkolon (2010), Rangin Megher din(2012), Desher Katha Vabi(2009) Story: Jalpipider Bashatbari Dubechilo Chand Nishinda Bone (2021)

(2013);

Editor: Literary Web Magazine `Shabdakunja’ www.shabdakunja.com.

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

At the beginning of the offer.

Maruf Shaikh

When you leave. Bangladesh

Without loving me.

Unforgettable love ... I can not forget, In the silent rainy season; You left,

It has taken away the freedom to forget and you feel no pain.

And you raise your hand to me like this.

Leave me like this... Not that way, Why do I think when the burning flame of love

If you, Give me such a release.

is lit?

But when the sun

In anticipation of this

wakes up behind the fog,

release,

An unnecessary rain that occurs on the pyre of

I'm waiting for you, too.

clouds,

You finally ran away from home,

The

wind

through

the

Just for me.

blows swaying

window

The "feeling" I got when I found the last

The pages of a closed book fly like a flip station. The whistle gave pain, flop ... When the postmaster named 'emptiness' Or listening to the sound of the page after pretends. Let me sit ...

All the pleasures

So when it rains,

close my eyes

Leaves me in the clouds,

As if i found you,

Even if you didn't cry like that ...

pressing the page;

Give the release like this. Stay that way, and you.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Always together Such asLike a heavy rain. Suddenly you come. I close my eyes, Keep me as a central prison in your hair. When you kiss my lips ...

Maid Corbic Bosnia ans Herzegovina

Visible expressionalism Who cares more about how we actually feel And what we want to achieve in life; to whom to confess? Maybe some ghosts that can upset our destiny

"Love can be different. But it either lights or illuminates his breath. Until it collapses.

existence On a gentle soul that will

If a storm wants to differ, It is impossible to call love Soon Far away after that as well."

pass all powerful weather

Then, missing at the moment. I opened my eyes and saw ... You are not mine. And No, I was yours too ...

You just want to tell

After many years, We may have seen. You are with the other, I'm with someone else.

In just one unseen moment, a trace is left in

Know how long is unknown! Maybe you and I started walking against ... But, Breathe connects us, Even after so many things, we still have both of us ...!

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conditions And again yellow from excessive 'standing someone how deep your soul is But you are often greeted by a closed Porte of all persons Because you don't matter to anyone anymore; everyone has their problems People are considered to be temporary residences, in fact they are They forget about some things we did until yesterday Expressionism forces them to flee from everything that is normal And they accept the abnormal, isn’t that a song of silence?

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

It is easiest to cross some people out of your In life there are only double doors and life

situation choices

And karma is a miracle; come back like a Where it only matters that some actions are boomerang and charge

decided on time

All the mistakes we made during the life of the Before it’s too late to face the consequences Transient!

While the renaissance still falls into oblivion; the bird's wings remain broken

We run to some friendships that aren’t even

So our hearts remain just idle

worth it

In which we wander in search of vigorous

We seek all that is impossible; conversation in expressionism the late hours

At the fast pace of life, bragging and the like!

Love, touch, attention, emotions or even more

Not everything you see is

From all of the above, we

so fabulous and great

only get our backs turned

Wrapped in cellophane, it

Where they consciously

really is that small

hurt us, and powerless to

Although everything in

resist

this world is so short In the long run, it is the

Realism is a very cruel

only thing we make of life

thing, we live at a hectic

Compromises,

pace of life

rejections, lead to the downfall of the universe

Where everyone looks at how to take advantage of someone without a shred of And as we look for a part of ourselves, the shame

years increase gradually

Of course we will never get forgiveness

And you die knowing you weren't special to

someone feels

People are a strange race, stone sleepers who

What just matters is how to benefit someone

ask for a lot

Lying that everything is fine, when in fact it is And they never, ever give what you expect not

Of course, most people don't care how anyone

"A lot."

You know yourself ...

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Zakir Malik India

Smell of Jehlum Thine rivers chirping from dawn till dusk are my nights of ecstasy from which freshness does flow with drops of peace pouring into Dal. I hide my puzzles under your green coats, and those glistening Lillies of the Wular, in my dreams, I sleep over melody of gush and sink into the abyss of myriad waves O' Kashmir you drench; glow like diamond while my thirst quenches with balls of snow that

thatch

lush

greenery is where I belong, where I come from rest my breaths are the guests of time. Endless is dusk where I slide towards slowly, slowly into the waters of Mansar, I walk then towards Silk route to relish

and squeeze taste of nature at its best. I live in the drops of Pangong lake O' my land I smell your beauty

Bio: Zakir Malik is the editor-in-chief for the International Literature and Art Magazine, a poet, translator, reviewer, writer, critic, and a social campaigner. Zakir Malik is 45 year old, belongs to Trehgam Kashmir, co-author of more than 45 books. 'The Wail of the Woods' was published in March 2020. Zakir Malik had remained director for UNESCO to International Youth Development Model United NationsIndia, and a permanent member at Jammu and Kashmir Innovative Foundation for Transformation Society. Publicity Secretary to Uni4Kashmir initiative of Mehboob Makhdoomi. Zakir is general secretary for Cultural Forum Kupwara affiliated with Adbi Markaz Kamraaz Jammu and Kashmir. Former Editor to Wular Publication House Anantnag. Zakir Malik had earlier been a country ambassador for Lit Light Magazine and Literary Sparks. Zakir had written forewords and edited several books of various genre, his multidimensional proficiency surrounds him with a lot of respect and honour. Zakir Malik had been nominated by Indian Book of World Records with Indian Humanitarian Award, by Bravo Book of World Records, for Rashtra Prerna Award and India book of records as well.

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Tanu Vermani Kapoor

Bhagirath Choudhary

India

Betrayed

My love, my faith, my hope All of them were tall Till someone caught my dream Shattered, prior to install Some thieves of mind are loose Beware, they stealthily crawl Your heart, your mind they win And then they see you fall Precious are the thoughts Just trust your heart and soul Don’t share with any cozener Dream catchers are on roll Don’t fall for charm of words Don’t give your cards away You will be left bereft If in time you didn’t sway To trace a mind raider You’ll know it through the eyes Just trust yourself and heavens In eyes you’ll find all lies I gathered all my courage And stood up for my heart I saved it from being trotted And learnt a new art year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Doesn't matter If I am literate Or layman But it is better If I can Just be a human It is better That I stop Being diabolical And stand vertical For the matter So verily great To keep My humanity straight It is better That I stop Judging any one And thinking evil Of any man And woman For being civil It is better I mind My humane business I must stop hurting And polluting With my selfishness And insatiable greed For proclaiming My false economic creed Universe is enfolded And moulded Into a human Sage To be And become God's very own man A true Human Wise and sane

I weaved a dream to fulfill And kept it safe from all Nurtured it with toil I didn’t ever brawl

Being Human

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Ewith Bahar Indonesia

The antipode’s destiny I. Along the neural pathways I let my impulse exploring Your axon and dendrite I could feel your arms squeezing me And your lips locking my life tightly Showered by the abundant orange moon beam The enriched love carried us away in the dream

Sitting in a library, I feel perfect I leave my trip, I leave my grief Being absorbed by the mystical charm More gripping than facebook or instagram There… In the sacred room laden with shelves that I called a university I imbibe all the wisdom Which when I come out My smartness evolves to differentiate right from wrong honesty from dishonesty sincerity from insincerity mercy from ruthlessness there… on a heavy oak chair with thin and thick books covering the table I educate myself, obedient to the lecturers: Hamka, Soekarno, Nietzsche, Aristotle, Confusius, Avicenna, Al

The whole stairway to heaven Is now in the middle of your chest And when I try to reach I found the deepness of your eyes Drowning my soul a clear way leading to the tower of your arms Stretches wider and wider.

Ghazali.

Silence

The two poles, sun and the moon Ignore the antipodean destiny insist to cross the hemispheres for the longing’s sake.

In silence I find my truest self Celebrating the tranquility Within the thin shadow of certainty I whisper God’s name in a solemn chant

The library To conquer the enigmatic life Crushed in my palm A quiet room where angels dwell to where I convincingly stride bringing card Bronzy sky turns darker catalogue As the grave-like quietness I hear nothing but books whispering Silencing my thought On their heads, blink a light And I feel my real existence.

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Brief biography Ewith Bahar is a poetess, novelist, editor, translator and essayist from Indonesia, and lives in Jakarta. She had a long time career in a mass-communication field, radio and television industry, as a TV host at Television of Republic of Indonesia (TVRI, a government TV station) for several cultural and musical programs.

Arundhati Mukherjee India

Nature and We

It's an indivisible bond between Nature and we, One affects the other as we all agree. The huge winter storm, in parts of USA, or the deluge in uttarakhand left us in dismay, it made us aware , She has published nine books, in all of the harm we have done to her. genres, poetry, short stories, novel and essay. The effects of global warming , In 2015, she was a producer and publisher for with aftereffects of climate changing, has left us puzzled and our head whirling. Hungarian poetess’ bilingual poetry book, Renewables were titled POISON (Racun), wherever focussed, Kinga Fabo, for to mitigate the global Indonesian market. warming, Ewith Bahar also as we thought the clean organized Indonesian technology , poets to publish their will save us from apology, works into eight poetry but be it USA or India, anthologies since 2014. none was spared of the disaster phobia. We fell to natures fury, as great parts were left in dark, and power cut and blackout left us dreary. The hydro projects in uttarakhand, faced the deluge of glacial lake outburst and flood, Humans wear your thinking cap, to a more sensible solution to disaster trap, as projects you are taking for humanity, to be in comfort zone, at the cost of nature is the cause of calamity. Think out technological solution, or ways of environmental preservation, So that Nature and We, can live joyfully.

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

One of her own poetry books, Sonata Borobudur, got a prestigious prize from Indonesian National Library as The Best Five Indonesian Poetry Books 2019. Ewith Bahar also loves teaching. She was a teacher at a Communication Institution, Interstudi and LEPPKINDO, and a public speaker for communications matters, creative writing and bibliotherapy.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Selma Kopic

Sahadev Behera

Bosnia

India

Divine love Love is not a single word of others It has defined itself with deep cares. Utterance of love from heart and soul No one able to hurt and gnarl. The most powerful praising articulation True and ecstasy love with transcription. Epithet to love is not so easy But it is really a sense of crazy. Love has no diameter or any radius For

endless

meticulous and tedious. Love is sweet soothe and glad in nature, Mingles of heart and soul with pleasure. Love is a bond of divine power No one could disturb for ever. The dark patch of lament and sorrow

Just passed away slowly like a narrow.

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Love without an Ugly Word Maybe we should break up like all normal people, arguing for days, saying ugly words that sting like a sword. You would yell, I would cry like most other women. After days, maybe longer, I would be angry and look for reasons why I shouldn't love you. Thus, we parted with a long and tender embrace, without quarrel and tears, in silence. You had to leave, I knew you had to leave. And that is it. Now I have no reason to hate you, to think or say bad things. I just know I love you even more. We will meet, again, one day, one way or another. And our hearts will dance because they will know how happy we are to have us. Isn't that the love that everyone wants to experience, to taste? Love without an ugly word ever. TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Ramesh Chandra Pradhani

United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Rumination Human heart loaded with Thoughts of mist and myth Some captures from inside Some from outside breath Dive into depth of anything Detract

from

something To attract the ones ever untold Hidden truth exclusively explored. Rumination moulds and reshapes man From a stage of common to uncommon From darkness to illumination A call for worldwide reformation Sadness discharges the ray of joy Just a means of life to enjoy The pleasure of victory Unfurling the cover of mystery.

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Esoterical Infusions I am ego, a creation of gifted evolution Born to create mayhem Playing devil's advocate upon the manifested plane, of illusionary realities Only to be suppressed, and overcome, through devotional practices Bearing a loving compassionate heart, mind and soul, towards all life, irrespective of form In acceptance and fulfilment of balancing karma Through meditation, prayer, and contemplation Casting aside all shadowy impediments, creations of the egotistically childish meddlesome mind The incessantly infuriating chattering, inside one’s head One’s persistently streaming, arising human cravings, thoughts, feelings and emotions Laying bare, all egotistically created limitations, unnecessary to function fluidly, within observing selfs’, pure conscious awareness Self-realisation, dwelling in nirvana’s renewing sea of peaceful tranquilities Infinities, eternally flowing esoterical infusions beyond humans’ intelligible understandings - enlightenment!

India

Clive Norman

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Dr. Ana María Manuel Rosa

And

with

the

thought

emerging

with

memories In which love was never the subject but others

Argentina

Avoiding saying and revealing the real

Declaration of love in my life feelings. Implicit message, where the silent language Where the looks say more than a thousand words... You are that important person that, you move the fibers To the point where my butterflies balance Neutralizing with the burdens of feelings That

vibrate

butterflies

your

You are the person that in the nights of dreams You invade the night's rest in two directions. You come and show up and tell me what you don't You dare awake, you hug me and kiss me between Roses and jasmine being witnesses decorating with The exquisite aroma and

transmitting

the hues of love.

as Free energy directed my

And the other you appear

way and directed Exclusively

for

as if by art and magic

the

without

feelings that both We

project

opposite

Invitation and when are

the

direction

you about to tell me how

much

compensating. Message that today I want to clarify from the bottom Of my heart that is filled with insomnia in front To your heart just by seeing us personally; And that although, we do not see each other, we project waves At a distance invisibly traveling traveling Countries of dreams, rivers of promises, seas of ideas

And oceans of love projects across continents With baskets of scented flowers of energy Pleasant just knowing each other.

That you love me as if a stormy peak The thunder and lightning appear From the approaching storm; resulting thunder They were the horns of the street cars; noise From lightning the alarm clock alarm; And the magic that morning and sunlight awaken Breaking the beauty of the declaration of love. The message of love learned what to say Whenever the opportunity is and; if it is not, the same You have to make room before you regret it all your life...

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

You are the one who reveals every dream to me, you are the air that Every day it runs through my lungs and helps me think And understand the love that floods my thoughts vAnd you are in every meal, in every ride and in every action

Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim Tunis

I live things intensely I live things intensely, A condition can be a hurricane or a storm,

That occupies my day. I didn't say it before An emotion like a tornado, because I didn't

States don't just pass through me,

It dared to pronounce what would be a They leave trails of footprints on their paths, declaration of love. I live each emotion at its highest intensity, A declaration of love that I always expected from

When I immerse myself in a book, I go on a journey,

you.

When

We avoid revealing each

friendship it is never half

other; but today February

measure,

When I look at a work of

It is the ideal occasion because

Cupid

and

Valentine throw

give

art, I imagine the hands and mind of the artist,

His arrow of love towards

When I explain a subject

you. The language of the

that fascinates me, I am

heart, the blood

capable of becoming a volcano,

Flowing through the veins, the oxygenated So.... imagine when I love. brain that Imagine when I give my heart, Strolling through the park breathing in the Imagine when my soul enters into perfumes of so much communion. Floral abundance and arboreal essences It is no longer the responsibility of humans but awaken words That provoke the expected love declaration only of souls who can hear and understand. and so many thoughts.

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Times postponed. I love you and you live in my

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Zainul Husain India

Jay-Ar Nhor Philippines

Let's establish peace A thought to attack and invade each nation Is the biggest obstacle in the way of peace and elation So, no bloodshed, no clash , no war These are nothing but an ugly scar On the face of humanity Killing generosity ,exhibiting insanity Let's join hands , let's make endeavour Let's establish peace , let's love each other. Durbadal Ghibela India

Mesmeric love and compassion In the warmth of love and compassion Melts down the heart hard and frozen Intertwined in them joy and cheer Also peace and serenity of heaven.

My heart is bleeding Flowing non stop of boiling blood My anger burns me My tears drown me Day and Night Days and weeks Months and years Still I have a long patience Finally,my heart warms again My heart heals What a happy feelings I feel Is this true love? Our hearts have the same rhythm Our eyes know that we are meant to be Our brains know that it is a true love My heart is happy again Never tired hoping Never tired waiting Learn to wait Because there is a true love for you And there is someone especial for you .

Assuaging the burn of melancholy They shower the potion of tranquility The insurmountable power with mesmerism Nurtures peace , amity and integrity.

Are You Tired of Waiting a True love?

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Vildana Staniscic Bosnia and Herzegovina

The judges is compare with god ,because his decision could save or death of a criminal or a good men from the truths.

A song of peace The people believe in them like a god and I

Always be in harmony with everyone, whenever you can help the needy. May peace reign in your soul, may the whole universe be blessed. Biswajit Aditya India

A question of mind

Sugar Zedna Philippines

Love and compassion are the basis of peace in the world at all levels Love has a convoluted language, It is nothing without its altruistic hue Being human is useless without its affinity of being humane

let alone a symphony of Innocent mind like a child wants to know sharing, caring and sympathy bind us all always! For knowing details, the question of As love erases hate and greed thousands peeping out of the mind... I've a question of mind, which is relevant . Our survival duly depends on the marriage of our commitment and involvement to peace The doctor is compare with god, why? Is the god save the people from the die? causes through love and genuine compassion. Will the people could save by the doctor forHis long life? Is the doctor could be able to livelong for knowing the anatomy of the humanbody? I think, if he knows well of the body ,he could be live-long from the others people so... But, it's not being done!!

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Peace is love, peace is above all, when birds fly in the open sky. Peace has no alternative, peace is a smiling child.

Also... But the question will remain same to me.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Dr. Sonia Gupta India

Never give up

organized by Nigeria, “PRASANNA JENN MEMORIAL AWARD ” by Asian Literary Society, 5th rank in International Essay writing competition organized by literary society, India in 2018. She is also fond of paintings, singing, cooking, designing, knitting and teaching. Her many scientific papers have been published in national and international journals. Presently, she is working as a faculty member in one of the dental colleges near her city. Her many projects are on the way.

O’ never give up and move on, It takes time for great things to happen, Who knows when your words take shape of melodious sonnets? Who knows when your simple art portraits a Muhammad Ishaq Abbasi canvas? Pakistan Failure is nothing but to begin again, Never get tired and win the game, Colorism Life is amazing hiding so many miracles, The flower was blooming Have patience, you will in the pomegranate even achieve all orchard. impossible! Its leaves were reddish pink and white. 2. Pain Two birds were obsessed with this flower. Pain does not go in vain, One bird liked white and Rather it leads to a gain, the other red pink. Teaching a lesson to fight The two birds agreed. with fear, To divide the flower into Fighting with own battle letting us to conquer, two parts. Let me keep alive my pain, Get the white part of the white fan, Every moment it brings a change, And the red pink part of the red fan. A change that is always for better, The branch on which the flower was bloomed. To understand life’s mysterious chapters! It did not agree to the distribution of flower. BIOGRAPHY ** Because the beauty of the branch, Was associated with the beauty of the flower. Dr. Sonia Gupta from India is a dentist (BDS, Flower's life was not dear to both birds. MDS) by profession. She is a prolific writer in They wanted to make two pieces of flower, English, Hindi, and Punjabi languages. She has To satisfy their choice. authored eight English and two Hindi independent Those who love on the basis of race and anthologies. Her writings are part of various anthologies, magazines & newspapers. She has colorism. received many awards in the poetry competitions They don't care about anyone's smiling life. organized by various literary groups. She won a Gold and Silver medal in a poetic world cup

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Afrose Saad

It's our duty to save world From all the devastation attacks

Bangladesh

A survey

Though tough also need to create norms To save the future generation

A survey is held secretly To know the actual situation of universe

A file is completed perfectly

The surroundings the lovely zephyr

Then submitted to the authority

Which are affected by civilization foggy Very well said for this segment Let's wait and see for the next step weather It's a secret mission of 100 days All

are

ready

Slavka Bozovic

dramatic way Montenegro

Oh no it's totally shocking views the

greenish

hues

There are many divisions

Only catching sight by

in the world

giant buildings With

all

Unfortunately

the modern

techniques Very rare to find out a pristine tree To take fresh breathe by opening heart We're destroying our wonderful nature River to ocean all losing its pride Concrete takes all soft places Soil losing its stickiness Easily attacks all demonic creatures As a flood or tornado of nature's curse

humanity,

for it

devastating. Intolerance, hatred and conflict reign The harmony of life is disturbed by various factors. Therefore, let us unite, dear poets We spread the arms of compassion and love Let us respect and love each other as brothers And every evil that haunts this world we will win.

Where's

Let's respect and love each other

All get opportunity to come smoothly Due to spreading of pollution world year I, no. 8, 2021, February

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

LIFE

Omar Nassar

IN healing sunshine When we conserve nature over vast aboretum spreads with care lovers kiss and canoodle on exuberant grass under tranquil shades IT'S seeking solace in the sheer pleasure qietude of a loving when we conserve nature DAY with consuming romantic love Kenya

where plants and humans peacefully coexist and without extravagance live passionately in a selfless WORLD OF SHOWERS FLOWERS

AND

THE land is green with contented society of happy families with vivid memory of LiFE

FLOWERS under sunray bursts open into lovely blooms bees quench their thirsts from sweet nectar butterflies gather pollen dust in a warm day's blast as environmental hope glows when a fresh shoot GROWS

THE BEAUTY OF NURTURE IS SEEN IN the spirit of nature silently lulling human crowds with irresistible music of singing brooks croaking frogs and singing birds the symphony of insects completes a slow evolutionary morphing of ecosystems as the pulse of

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Joanna Svensson

Dr. Hasmukh Mehta India

The winterview The winter view has come to life On old Dragon Hill I see through my window A new morning picture Painted with all The colors of winter Sleepy clouds - moving slowly Fading night that gladly welcomes A bright and clear new winters' day

Like a sweet song I spent the whole time and talked many times about the role played and honestly stayed in all the season you had every reason to feel with happiness I could see it on the face

The snow falls peacefully Covering the ground Snowflakes beaming With the splendor of pearls Trees and bushes, brook and reed All are covered with diamonds Placed with utmost precision By the experienced hands of frost So, Thank you dearestGod For all that I my see Thank you for your lovely Winter scenery!

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

you did everything you could do for me never thought you were bonded and not free gave everything in return and turned life's journey you stayed life long and never went wrong you made life like a sweet song and sung at each mode so, Ii give full tribute and don't allow it to dilute you are the same as was before making me never a sore

Sweden

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Destiny M O Chijioke Brazil

" When the days are ripe, it will be balanced and she shall receive double for all the sacrifices in raising leaders for the world as large.

The shining star " am treading on holy land, born in a desert of frustration, bringing forth petition to reason about deprive future, the heart is too weak to handle pain from the message.

N.B: happiness is a free occurrence event that happens to every individual who is willing to adopt the fact nothing remains stagnant, life moves in a circle, I don't need my present situation to address my life in public, rather instead of paying attention to the past, I look forward to developing my inner self. A healthy life never struggles to acquire beautiful things In life. Keep patient, faith, hope, most importantly balance your mind always to be able to wave past the wave of life.

" Who can find a diamond heart and" capable companions? They are Worth more than Kamrul Islam precious gold of ethiopia. " My life is highly hanging on her shoulder, she is my superwoman, am greatly enriched in soul, and never has reasons to faint in life when she is around me.

"There is more to her flowing heart of water, your encouraging words bond me to be happy, never spiteful of my life.

Bangladesh

Language Of Silence It still brings me to tears-the palm-tree and its shade, A long cry for the lost tune of virginity makes the creepers unrest...

Birds with its nest netted to fate and the fertile tale would break the language of silence. " My future is your daily quest without giving Among the reeds and weeds of magicians’ up when everything is terribly bad, you keep home persevering to attain some value upon us. a frost-bit scorpion recites the sin and the sinners in the same canopy. "Your spirit calleth me from the dark moment of life, I was rejected by the world, all hope is It’s a drughouse, a mental crack thrives hooked on your bright light. A blind bird wafting into the air to give another shore of mesmerizing days ... "Your words are honoured to my heart, I am The language of silence smoothly transforms gladly filled with hope when you speak to me the muddy desires into a journey of flowery words of wisdom filled with virtue. dawn.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Selma Kopic Maruf Shaikh Bosnia and Herzegovina

Words

Bangladesh

Dark Minded Thinker

The mind tells me. I think of that too. Words can be soft and hard, However, they can go like an avalanche or flow like a With the sunset on the beach— river. let's go, Holding her hand is like They can be a wound to walking too far. the soul or a balm to a Find her on a colorful wound, canvas as soon as there are some that aren't possible. for everyone's ears. But she is almost impossible to find on the We should beware of canvas of the mind. harsh, angry and sour Dreams teach desire, words, Go float or sink. they can cause sadness She might not be you. and tears. Not with you, Mind requests me. When such a word is I give advice to the mind. already thrown at you, The whole time, I'm not in it doesn't have to be her crowd. returned in the same measure. Although, the mind drives the pain. It proved that I have a good day. The most beautiful words are made of I still miss her a lot. cinnamon and honey, Looks like I need you, they are sweeter than sugar. I should not be alone. On the contrary of her, the claim is that I am Such a word is sought, sought, nothing more. until it's found. It really felt zero. Forget all the darkness of the past, A sweet word opens all the doors, The heart wants her to flow. because it's worth more than dry gold.

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Words can be like salt and pepper, they can cause pain and anger.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Eliza Segiet

Sai Prakash

Poland

India

Shape of Love

16. DISTILLED ROSE

She painted him with thoughts, she even felt a touch. Silky hands drawing on her lips the shape of love. She was with him, probably at the end of the earth pulsating like… like life. The earth showered with salty pearls.

You humans always complain leaving my beauty to air The thorns that I carry, not fair The moment I give out my bud You eagerly wait either to nip me at that stage Or a few days later when I reach my full bloom You will not allow me to cling On to my healthy stem Presented to your love, accepted or rejected My fate is one and the same At her Dream Beach, Detached petals, a bald she heard the waves stalk thrown away talking to the waves, A new owner will claim heard him saying: his right with a broom I'm fine with you. Gathering petals in Did he lie? masses Did they lie? Suffocated bags long travel restless nights It's nothing Confined to dungeons that he was just until the kilns are lit imaginary, Washed and washed many times as if to but cleanse our wronged bodies and souls still possible. Not a gentle pounding ,by feet and rock For her, everything and nothing. Forceful letting of oils from our souls What remain thrown into gutters without Translated by Artur Komoter much care The oils put to gentle flame Dripping tears a slow but sure transfer into a new bowl No color, a great perfume Heated again and

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Santosh Kumar Bhutan

Ven-Lyn A. Valdez Hong Kong

Religious diversity Goodness Eirene! Where is your sceptre, and a torch? The land isn't an Ara Packs, all turned to be childish. No values in individual differences be reckoned among all, Nobody liveth for pluralism in religions to exist. Afford them the value of credence, and yes, resistance as well, For better society to heal where the peace is vital, Of oblivious bias in minds, of religious differences, Since we belong to a diverse society, show all about solidarity.

I saw and sow a seed, That free and soon fled. A kind of goodness meant, For me and for all humanity. It will be feed by our kindness, The sunlight of righteousness. It will be nurtured by our morality, The rain of immortality.

all

From each moment and years, A test of time that endures, ensures. It will be soon, be seen and be strong. Bestowed by our untiring love. A humanity with humility. A tree of life that bear fruits of love. Not as a country but as one world. Not as just for one, but for all to be one.

Get the religious diversity a custom-based law of all nations, To suit all, in spițe of their needs and predilections, So that, peace be the weapon to overturn the unbending nature, Through conscious minds among the entirety of fellowship on earth.

Love for humanity

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Mihai Katin Romania

want you to tell me I want you to tell me how you can dare Declare that you love When love is long gone and maybe just In unnatural innocence he sometimes appears even then He is given the necessary dose of bullying, How to love you who know How many souls and bodies are trampled underfoot, They are sold behind the vegetable market Like sparrows that can fly when they hear the first cartridge fired, How to love you who take a selfie by the whorehouse And you find sexual liberation necessary Up to the limit of imaginary power, When the sea of adrenaline recedes, the rubbish of pleasure remains, Suicides and disappearances remain, Women who have only sex, Of children who have only sex And then you can probably love Like masochists touring the moon Before they hug or maybe The alienation of stupidity teaches you what if You seduce yourself with a little culture to understand the drama Which is actually a wall away And it counts in penetrations and accounts of which Buy the luxury necessary for the makeup of the characters who offer pleasure But isn't love a pleasure

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And maybe just the double mirror of pain In which and from which we escape in desperate search To someone we own or own Thoughts, words And something in the soul that is tangible Like a northern lights, Only the body can be massacred, It can be the object as love the subject And between them so many verbs and interjections and metaphors, I want you to tell me if you can love On the horrors and evil debauchery, If you can kiss the cries of infants and virgins! But no, I know, you can, There are headphones, There are sound walls, There are basements, attics, red areas, There is a street with a thousand eyes where the sexual slaughterhouse It is not closed by any bird, it is prolific, it is the essence Lying that we have something animal when in fact The human beast has terrible reasons, She listens to Brahms as she satisfies her madness To exhaust beauty, to tarnish it, For yes, love, love evil even if you remain hidden in the library, Under the bed or in the dressing room where your poppy skins hang Celebrating the expulsion from Heaven Believing that the gate of hell is open! Error! No one is there anymore! Everyone paid to come here to see The human spectacle of love!...

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Gerlinde Staffler

Prince Steve Oyebode Nideria

Sleeplees Mind

The power of love

Thoughts are wandering in turbulent streams Many a blinking spot in my brain beams I can’t catch all these naughty fireflies They flow through me opening my eyes

We thought it was but a mere oath When we both sworn an allegiance That nothing shall in anyway separate us Not even the ugly moments of ill health Or the dangerous time of austerity Even period of unanswered prayers We never knew we were both wrong When our emotions overwhelmed us

Thoughts leave me never alone They’re present twice like a clone Roaming my woods in swarm of ideas In numerous queries, worries and plans Thoughts are sprouting like plants Or like a range of hills of ants My head beats like a battle drum Leaving me so as I forget my name Thoughts glide through my mind Thoughts wrench from the heart unkind They talk to me without strain Of joy, fear, anger and pain Unceasing thoughts fall asleep Then in weird dreams they always creep And fly with me all the night But nothing can I do for their might

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Now that the ugly visitor of death beckons at me Whispering to me about my very last moment To separate and do us part till eternity My consolation is that you shall outlive me Even now that I believed you have the liberty I mean the freedom to choose another man The more I realize I’m fast leaving this world Surprisingly, the clearer I see we’re both leaving This undemystified magnet has glued us Right from the hour we made the promise That wherever I go thou shall also go That my people shall be yours and vice versa That my life shall always be your life And that your death shall also be mine Now I know the nitty gritty of oath That we both made under the mango tree

Italia

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

prose 25-30

experiences and go on a trip down memory lane. The idea now is not to dwell on the past, or any past hurt experiences oh so contraire my dear Watson, but to put down your Tapestry Of Life thoughts your ideas your images. So call this what you may your canvas This piece was written whilst waiting at your tapestry you talking back to you, but on the hospital and I guess that’s the beauty of this canvas. You can use a variety of pens God in all imagery taking you and me on that pencils crayons kokis whatever your journey and a fond reminder if you spare a preference to see the end result in what before thought for the ones less fortunate that have to was an entire blank page to a pathway a gateway a breakaway, into a somewhat new bear. If you were to view the tapestry of your found existence a new found friendship between you and what own life what do you you see you drew shaped think would you see? The molded created on your front of your tapestry canvas. could be beautiful Salomé Jacobs

exquisite expensive dynamic flawless picturesque superficial all together wouldn’t you agree. Yet behind every tapestry of canvas is a mess you got yourself into and the mess God got you out of... and I don’t see don’t depict which is kept hidden behind a canvas of bitterness envy and misery and so ugly interwoven with life’s stresses divorce pain suffering you name it you lived it jealousy greed hardship abuse frustration anger gluttony grief depression disease all knotted together on display for you, me the world to see.

Each sketch design curve big or small significant or insignificant represents something to you. An answer to an unanswered question a solution a path. What you thought was perhaps life threatening life damaging life challenging to you, became a safety haven a safe place for you to connect to the hidden treasure the hidden gem the hidden value in you the hidden budding butterfly waiting to flap your wings the hidden artist in you.

Wake up. Get up. Dress up. Look up. Pray up. Ask up. Believe up. Delight up. Trust up Right now you have the ability the that God will allow you to make changes along thought processes to create the life that you the Tapestry of your life up. want. How, well let's imagine you an artist shall we, each one of us are given a tapestry a canvas on which to paint or draw the life you envision. Think back on your childhood

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TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Bosna i Hercegovina

Sahdo Bosnjak Bosnia and Herzegovina

Mokropoljske magle

Iz nagradjene knjige Trebinje još miriše na nju Umela je da miriše sa šumama, da pleše sa okeanima, da voli usamljene planine i da ostavlja tajne po knjigama. Umela je da voli mene... O tebi nikada ne pričam, a puno mi je srce tvoga lika. O tebi nikada ne pričam, a tako te divno dušom ćutim. O tebi nikada ne pričam...Samo te mirišem... Samnom želim da ostaris..zato ću te maštati dok mi se ne ostvariš..Ne želim da stalno dolaziš. Želim da nikada ne odlaziš...preko dana ne dam oku da zaplače..Čekam noć da zagrlim tamu pa da se onako isplačem...Čovek u životu doživi mnogo padova i letova..Ti si taj svemir sačinjen od tamne materije, tišine, samoče i beskrajno mnogo svetova...Noću te sanjam i prelep mi je san...preko dana prolaziš mi kroz misli ulepšavajuci dan...Ej živote daj nešto opipljivo i stvorije ispred mene stvarno....ej živote dokle igraš na kvarno...Njeni mirisi zasene svaku baštu..srce opet pokrečeš maštu..Ti si za naše tropske krajeve ..tamo gde je more.da sa čupavom kosom ideš...na morsku so da mirišeš... Ona je arabija, crne haljine, crne plahte, ratovi, najlepši miris, tišina pustinje i lepota oaze, opijum u duši,Ona je sve što nemam a želim.Plesao sam sa zvezdama, galaksijama, Marsom, mesećinom i Suncem, ali njeno svetlo najlepše pleše..Nosila je cvetne, retro haljine, ajlajner na očima, šlag u kosi i mirisala je na cimet i kolače...Nosila je Trebinje i mene u srcu.. year I, no. 8, 2021, February

1. POGLAVLJE – Hej, Sejfula! – Stani, Sejfula! Drž’, ne dajte mu tamo!... – Stani, bolan, Sejfula, da nam pričaš kako si ono prevrnuo udovicu Zlatu pa te darivala s deset madžarija!... “Prepriječite mu put!...” “Oborite ga!...” “Gurnite mu flašu u usta!...” “Drž’te ga!...” “Ne dajte mu da pobjegne!...” “Veeežiite gaaa!...” “Drž’tee gaaa!...” “Ne daaaj!...” Bježi Sejfula kao da ga progoni sto vukova, trči, a sve mu se čini da i ne staje na zemlju već da je okrilatio pa leti. Leti, pa ne osjeća ni kao kandže oštre bodlje ostruga, što mu kidaju živo meso s obraza kad naiđe na bogaze. Ne osjeća ni kamenove međaše. Ni busenove suhe zemlje. Ni jarke za odvođenje viška vode s oranica. Ma, ne osjeća ni svoje bose raskrvavljene, bolne noge. Sav se pretvorio u čulo sluha. I nekakvo bestežinsko klupko. Pa leti, leti, brže i od strelovitog jastrebovog leta kad se ustremi na žrtvu. No, nikako da umakne razularenoj rulji mokropoljskih besposličara i sprdadžija, koji kao da i nemaju drugog posla nego da se sprdaju i iživljavaju na ovakvom jednom nesretniku i fukari.

Zoran Radosavljević

– Drž’!... – Nee daaaj!... ISSN 2458-0198 – ISSN-L 2458-0198

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

I Sejfula trči dalje. Kao ona navijena dječija igračka, štono je izmislili Švabe, pa se sad njome igraju begovska, aginska i gazdinska djeca. – Nee daaaj!... – Obooriii!...

– Veeežiii!.. Čuje Sejfula na sve strane kako grmi i odjekuje, jače i od same grmljavine topova s mokropoljske tvrđave u vrijeme Ramazanskog ili Kurban-bajrama. U magnovenju se nekako uspio i pokajati što je ikako morao skretati u Hamzinu mehanu prije nego što ode Mujagi i uradi poslove. A svratio je nekako po inerciji jer se u mehani, pored mnoštva besposlenih mladića, uvijek nađe i poneki putnik namjernik ili pak neki ozbiljniji, stariji Mokropoljac, ili čak i neki pružni radnik, pošto je državna vlast u blizini Mokropolja napokon otpočela s gradnjom uskotračne pruge za eksploataciju drveta iz okolnih šuma. Oni bi se sažalili na Sejfulin jadan izgled, na njegove upale, ustakljene oči, na njegovu prljavopepeljastu kosu, na ispijene usne i drhtave ruke, ruke bolesnog alkoholičara, te bi mu poručili koji findžan rakije. Ili bi onako usputno, kao nehajno, odlomili od svoje meze koji okorak spečene, obajatile i kao balega crne pogače. Ugledniji gosti, kako ih je nazivao mehandžija, tad bi se povlačili, a Sejfulu bi pod svoje uzimala grupa već dobrano alkoholom zagrijanih mladića. Oni bi, poput lešinara, čekali da Sejfula prvo dobro ućeifi na račun nekog milostivog gosta, a zatim bi bacili mamac na koji se on dao lahko upecati – ponudili bi ga findžanom ljute šljive.

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U početku rakijom i lijepim riječima namamili bi jadnika u svoju jazbinu, neki mračni mehanski budžak, gdje je obično sjedila oveća grupa besposličara, sve mladih, asija ljudi, begovskih, aginskih i gazdinskih sinova. Većina njih su propali srednjoškolci ili studenti koji su se zbog ljubavi prema mehani, kocki i bekrijanju zauvijek odvojili od obrazovnih ustanova i omeđili svoju životnu sudbinu zaparloženom mokropoljskom palankom. Njima bi se prišuljali i ostali mokropoljski dokoličari i skitnice, znajući da će im u tom raspusnom društvu biti zanimljivo i ugodno. I baš ovaj ludi Sejfula došao im je kao poručen. Sprva bi ga svi tapšali po ramenima, nutkali rakijom i mezom, dok se Sejfula ne bi okuražio i raspričao. A naučio je tako sigurno i tečno da priča, da kiti i veze, od kako je postao obavezan gost ili, bolje rečeno, obavezan inventar Hamzine mehane, da su mu riječi neupućenima izgledale kao najbezazlenija istina. Svašta je, jadnik, naučio u ovoj mehani, samo jedno nije: da se smije kao ostali gosti. Istina, kad se društvo smije, smije se i Sejfula, samo što je njegov smijeh do te mjere izvještačen i neuvjerljiv da prije liči na meketanje ožalošćene koze negoli na ljudski smijeh. – Me, he, he, he!... – razvlačio bi usta od uha do uha, i to je sve, i ništa se drugo na njemu nije smijalo kao kod ljudi koji se iskreno, od srca smiju. Naprotiv, baš tad bi mu se čelo nabralo, smračilo da su se obrve sastavljale, dok bi u očima bljesnule neke neuhvatljive TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

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– Pij, Sejfula, bolan, majku ti! I Sejfula bi morao da pije iako u njemu prilijeva, zapravo izlijeva, i na usta i u nogavice. – Igraj, Sejfula, mečko ciganska! Momku uistinu ništa drugo i ne bi preostalo nego da po ko zna koji put zaigra svoju igru, igru života i smrti. Igrajući oponašao je nesretnu zvijer, medvjeda igrača, koliko god mu to njegova ograničena pamet dopuštala. Isturio bi ruke naprijed, kao medvjed prednje noge, i mlatio njima tako snažno da ti se čini kako će se evo sad iščašiti iz ramena. Istovremeno bi poskakivao s jedne noge na drugu, usukivao vrat da su mu sve žile nabrekle kao konopci, kreveljio glavu sad u jednu sad u drugu stranu, kao što to čini medvjed od boli izazvane zatezanjem halke u nosu. Pogled mu je bio ustakljen i izgubljen negdje u ćoškovima ispod stropa mehane. Štaviše je i mumlao, samo što su neartikulisani, tužni a otegnuti glasovi, što ih je ispuštao, djelovali stvarnije i bolnije negoli mumlanje ma kojeg cirkuskog medvjeda. Iz gotovo svakodnevnog iskustva s ovim kabadahijama znao je da mu sad život ovisi isključivo od sreće. Ali i od toga koliko će uspjeti da udovolji ćeifovima i niskim, moglo bi se reći, sadističkim strastima pijane year I, no. 8, 2021, February

kafanske rulje. Napose mladim gospodičićima: begovskim, aginskim i gazdinskim sinovima. – Slabo je to, hak, Sejfula! ‘Aman zabušavaš noć... hak, noćaske! – javi se, štucajući i podrigujući, Ivica, mladić bledunjava, ispijena lica, upalih obraza i upalih, vodnjikavih očiju. Jedinjak gazde Stjepka Franića, razmaženjak i sada već bivši učenik trećeg razreda gimnazije. Jednom je kao slučajno navratio u Hamzinu mehanu, zasjeo s veselom bratijom i tu ostao, zauvijek; kao da je prikovan za stolicu. Uzalud je gazda Stjepko sve pokušavao kako bi momka ponovo privolio knjizi i kući. A kad je uvidio da mu to najposlije neće uspjeti, počeo je naglo da kopni i pobolijeva. Naposljetku je skrhan i ojađen legao na postelju, prepuštajući sve poslove slugama. Otad kao da zajedno s njim kopni i nestaje i njegovo veliko imanje. – Dašta da zabušava! Nema ništa, asli, bez julara i degeneka!... – s nekom slatkom zluradošću prihvati Velija Budžaklić, sin Atifage Budžaklića, kulaka i vojnog liferanta. Sijevao je od pijanstva zamagljenim i zakrvavljenim očima, škrgutao kao lopate velikim a kao grablje rijetkim zubima dok se, ustajući, obadvjema šakama oslanjao o klupu što je škripala, jedva izdržavajući njegovu prema godinama nesrazmjerno krupnu tjelesinu. Usput, onako pijan, zakači za nogu Ibre Soše, zaglavinja i svom silinom naleti na zid sklepan od grubih hrastovih dasaka. U prvi mah pomisli kako se nalazi negdje na livadi u pustoj i hladnoj noći, jer je svud oko sebe vidio samo bezbrojna jata zvijezda, dok se vrući znoj, od jela, pića, veselja i toplote, po čelu i leđima, odjednom preobrati u hladnu jezu.

iskre, svojstvene samo luđacima, izmiješane mržnje, bijesa i ironije, čineći ga još glupljim i komičnijim. A društvo bi ulazilo u onaj stupanj pijane razularenosti i raspojasanosti kad razum staje i kad se brišu sve granice obzira. Tad Sejfulina koža ne bi vrijedjela ni pet para.

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Dugo mu je trebalo da se snađe, pribere, pa čak i otrijezni. A kad poseže rukom preko čela da obriše znoj, te napipa ogromnu čvorugu i malu posjekotinu, iz koje je jedva primijetno izbijala krv, i pošto najzad ugleda družinu kako se šeretski smije njegovoj nezgodi, on se, razbješnjen kao pas kome su oteli kost, sjuri prema Sejfuli, psujući mu majku kopilansku; te ga svom žestinom raspali cipelom u stražnjicu da jadni momak zaglavinja i koliki je dug poletje ravno u krilo Mehmedalije Čvorka.

crvena tačka; zapravo je to bila kapljica zgrušane krvi. Ugledavši ga takvog, mehandžija Hamza odbrza u prostoriju za pripremanje kahva te zakračuna za sobom vrata. Kako ništa ne bi čuo a ni vidio. Priviknuvši oči na svjetlost, raširenih ruku i raskrečenih nogu Velija se polahko uputi prema Sejfuli. Glave malo iskošene udesno, zuba iskeženih, sličio je na gladnu zvijer puštanu iz kafeza dok se ustremljuje na svoju žrtvu.

– Hoja, Sejfula! Ne sij bostan!

Ugledavši svog mučitelja, Sejfula – Klizav teren, ha, momčino! instinktivno osjeti opasnost, diže obje ruke da – Ustani pa opet, delijo! – čuli su se se zaštiti i poče panično da uzmiče natraške, očajnički ispuštajući glasovi iz svih grla. neartikulisane glasove: Vrludajući od be, be, beee!..., a što bi se pijanstva, boli i moglo protumačiti kao: osvetničke mržnje, Velija ne, ne, neee!... je ipak nekako natrefio I kao što niko ne sporedni izlaz i nestao u vidje da se gladni vuk mrkloj noći. Pratio ga je sažalio na tužno blejanje urnebesan smijeh bespomoćnog janjeta, njegovih drugova, koji su tako ni u očima Velijinog, pretpostavljali po šta je mržnjom i bijesom, Velija otišao. I da prava izobličenog lica nije bilo zabava tek predstoji. ni iskre milosti dok se Samo, što je taj smijeh prije sličio smijehu pećinskih ljudi ili glasanju primicao bespomoćnoj, uzdrhtaloj žrtvi. Bezizgledno bježeći natraške, žrtva natrapa na zvijeri negoli na ljudski smijeh. Društvo je uguralo Sejfulu u sredinu, bešćutnu rulju od koje ga nekolicina ščepa za tjeralo ga da pije rakiju naiskap i zagovaralo ruke i silno zavitla pravo u naručje čovjeku raznim pitanjima kako im se ne bi izmigoljio i zvijeri. A on, vješt kroćenju pastuha, munjevito umakao. Čim bi pokušao da bježi, potpetljali bi nabaci Sejfuli jular na glavu, potom mu jedan mu nogu, gurali ga jedni na druge i tako kraj ugura u usta, spretno napravi nekoliko ponovo vraćali u sredinu. Jadnik je slutio čvorova i čvrsto pritegnu tako da se uže kakvo mu se zlo sprema, kolutao unezvijereno nesretniku, slično oštrici noža, duboko ureza u očima i sa strahom u srcu očekivao otkuda će kožu. Oko šake lijeve ruke više puta omota se pojaviti Velija. A on se zaista i pojavio. slobodan kraj julara, a desnom rukom Zastao je koji časak na vratima, mrkliji od izmahnu: i šesteropleta kandžija poče zviždati, mrkle noći iz koje je dolazio. U lijevoj ruci bio spuštajući se po Sejfulinom nesretnom tijelu. mu je jular, a u desnoj kandžija. Na čelu, Mučenik je samo stenjao i ječao, a gomila oko između dva oka, kao kod Indijki, isticala se njega igrala je, navijala, urlala kao u transu te

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Družina se šutke uputi prema izlazu. Jednog po jednog gutala je tamna zavjesa noći. Velija se sagnu, hladnokrvno razveza jular, vrhom cipele snažno ćušnu Sejfulu u rebra i pomisli: “Ovo ti je za Zuhru!” Zatim se okrenu i odbrza za družinom u noć. Lice mu je bila prekrila tanka patina osvetničkog samozadovoljstva.

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

MANJE POZNATE RIJEČI: AGA – turski plemić; bogat i moćan čovjek. ASIJA – silan, ohol, naprasit čovjek. ASLI – sigurno, vjerovatno, zaista. BOGAZA – uzak prolaz; razgrađena ograda ili živica. BEG – turski plemić; ugledan, bogat čovjek. BUDŽAK – ćošak, kut, ćoše. BEKRIJANJE – pijančenje, opijanje. DEGENEK – fizička kazna, udaranje. FUKARA – siromah, sirotinja. JARAK – kanal za odvođenje vode. JULAR – povodac, oglavak za konja od pletenog užeta ili kože. KURBAN-BAJRAM – jedan od dva najveća muslimanska praznika. KABADAHIJA – zamjenik dahije; nasilnik, siledžija. KULAK – vlasnik zemlje koja prelazi zakonom dozvoljen maksimum. MADŽARIJA – starinski novac. ME(J)HANA – ugostiteljski object; kafana. ME(J)HANDŽIJA – vlasnik me(j)hane. NEARTIKULISANE – neodređene, neuobličene. OSTRUGA – loza ili list kupine. PASTUH – neuškopljen konj za prijeplod. PATINA – zelenkasta hrđa na nekim metalima. RAMAZANSKI BAJRAM – jedan od dva najveća muslimansk praznika. SADIST – onaj koji uživa da muči druge. ŠVABE – narod iz Švapske. TRANS – ekstaza; zanos, ushićenje. UĆEIFITI – početi se osjećati ugodno, zadovoljno. ZAKRAČUNATI – zatvoriti kračunom.

tako samo podsticala Velijinu mržnju i bijes. Psujući žrtvi kopilansku majku, mučitelj je zamahivao sve jače, sve bješnje. A kad se šesterostruka zmija stade ovijati oko nesretnikove glave i lica i kad olovne kuglice na njenim krajevima počeše orati krvave brazde po njegovim dugo nebrijanim, upalim obrazima i čelu, rulja zanijemje. Iz Sejfulinih usta zajedno s bijelom pjenom pocurila je krv i kao crveno-bijele niti padala posvud po prljavom drvenom podu. Njegove oči, izbuljene i velike, kolutale su unezvijereno i tužno po drvenim licima, kao da bi da iskoče iz svojih duplji. Čuo se još samo neujednačen ritam njegovih bosih nogu, što su teturavo igrale svoju mučeničku igru. Uskoro ga i one izdadoše, kleknuše, i jadnik se prući nauznak po hrastovom podu. Kao da je nekom višom silom pokošen. Ležao je tako raširenih ruku i nogu, krkljajući zbog naviranja krvave pjene, koja je prijetila da ga uguši.

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essay 31-35

Now new beginnings, new horizons, and

Clive Norman

new irrefutably viewed realities, beyond unfathomable, unimaginable dreamings; While

humanity

catches

with

Paradoxically technological advances; Reptilian minds seemingly fading, into the insignificant longThere are inexplicable paradoxically forgotten fairy tales, imaginative wonderlands influentially driven, mystifying infusions, As scientific understandings of Quantum filtering futuristic feathering winds

Entanglement’s theory grow exponentially

To some, believable, to others insanity,

Awakening new exciting, unimpeachably while in indifference, many sit nonchalantly paradoxical flights of fancy, a new age upon a rickety wobbly fence, counting their dawning, across shimmering golden-blue fingers

horizons,

Everything

ever

lovingly,

carried upon

white

cherished, believing true

feathering angelic wings,

in an illusionary world of

and a heavenly celestial

fleeting

prayer!

moments

happiness Coming

Lorenzo Marone

under

unsympathetic

ever-

deepening

scrutiny,

examined

empathically,

while nothing

Italia

The temptation to be happy

left to

chance No

stone

unturned,

box

left

unopened, no avenue unexplored Resultant conclusions are absolute; astoundingly

challenging

perceptions

humankind’s existences

Synopsis Cesare Annunziata could be defined without too many words an old and cynical

of pain in the ass. Seventy-seven years old, a widower for five and with two children,

Rocking illusionary perceived relative Cesare is a man who has decided not to give a realities, to their once universally known damn about others and the many dreams he cores; has closed the door on. With his life she has Enriching bodies, minds, and souls while few balances, mostly marked by a ferocious opening unused ever-deepening recesses of the mind, of unbelievable dimensions; Once

the

flights

filmmaker's heavenly delights ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

fantasies,

irony, perhaps for fear that they will not return. A life that could flow like this along its slope, up to its predictable and universal TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

outcome, between a glass of wine with Marino, Miroslaw Grudzień the neurotic old man on the second floor, the few

gossip

exchanged

reluctantly

with

Eleonora, the cat lady of the condominium, and carnal passion with Rossana, the mature

Translated by Anna Maria Stępień & Mirosław Grudzień

Marina

nurse who rounds off the income with paid

At that time, Marek was a guardian of the foreign student exchange groups on behalf of the university and the Association of Polish neighborhood. Students. He spoke with them alternately in But one day, in her condominium, the Polish and Russian, and learned Ukrainian on young and enigmatic Emma arrives, married the go. attention

the

widowers

Marina was from Kiev. A pure-blooded Ukrainian woman after her. Cesare immediately her great-greatunderstands that there is grandfathers, since generations. She had, as something wrong with she claimed, Cossack that couple, and he ancestors from Zaporozhye. However, certainly wouldn't want she was Russian, she to meddle, if it weren't for thought in Russian, and the silent request for help she pronounced her name in Russian – Marina, not in Emma's sad eyes ... Maryna. She spoke The secrets that Ukrainian sparingly and only when absolutely Cesare will discover necessary to her friends. Like all of them, she about his neighbor, but above all about tried to talk to Marek, not very much in Polish, himself, are the glittering subject of this adding Russian phrases from time to time. formidable novel, capable of drawing a She bore the name of the “Polish tsarina”, character in which the most ferocious famous in Ruthenian legends, the wife of False Dmitry (Lzhe-Dmitry) who, after murdering cynicism and the most profound humanity him, was forced to leave Moscow, and joined a certain Cossack chieftain. coexist with happy paradox. to a shady individual who looks so little like

But THIS Marina was in no way associated with the adventurous “Polish unforgettable protagonist of Mordecai tsarina”. She was reserved, modest, full of Richler's novel, Barney's version, you can't hidden, slightly old-fashioned charm. Beautiful, slender and delicate, black-haired. help but fall in love with Cesare Annunziata. In the whole group, she was the only one from Kiev. She seemed to be isolated in the group of Lviv residents, she only hung out with a little year I, no. 8, 2021, February

If you loved Barney Panofsky, the

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Jewish girl with deer-like eyes – Roza the National Library. He browsed there Feltzman. through the books for his master's thesis, When the time of departure was through manuscripts from the 17th century. approaching, he and the students from Lviv He lived in a dormitory of the University of were chatting over a Crimean wine with the Technology. perky name of “Chorny Polkovnik” (Black Colonel). He began giving them nicknames. The fawn, Slavic, wide-in-hip Oksana he called “Kamysh” – that is reed, rushes. Something swayed by the wind, that was how he thought about it.

She began her studies at the University of Warsaw and lived in a university dormitory. She spoke Polish well, but out of old habits, they switched to Russian at certain points.

They made an appointment at the exit of Świętokrzyska street to Marszałkowska “That I can't stand on my own feet, look street. He was standing next to the appointed for support like ivy? Am I so shaky?” she asked, newsstand and, out of boredom, he read the suddenly sad. shop signboards one by one. Marina was named “Welcome,” he by Marek in Russian: heard behind his back, “Farforovaya Chashka”, a “how are you doing, cup from porcelain. The young man?” she asked a Lviv girls brought with bit wryly and narrowed them such eastern her eyes with a delicate drinking cups with a smile. delicate and exotic blue “Why do you have pattern; such eastern such a dark look? Worried green tea cups were about something?” fashionable in the Soviet “A little. I didn't find Union at that time, they some important papers were made in Central that I needed.” Asian Uzbekistan, in the “Then lighten up. Let's think of city of Samarkand, whose even the name itself something more interesting than your books carried an aftertaste of a legend. and papers on this evening.” Before they returned to Lviv, they gave Marek invited her to the Ateneum him a wooden, folk Hutzul spoon as a souvenir, Theater, to the performance of Giraudoux's and signed it. “With this spoon, always drink “Electra”, with wonderful performances by kvass and remember us.” To this they added a famous Polish actors and actresses. recording of an old folk song that Marek liked She, in turn, invited him to the dormitory to listen to: the next day and introduced him to her Black eyes like blackthorn colleagues, Ukrainians from Dnieper Ukraine Black eyes like blackthorn and Transdnieper. When will we get married? They sat them at the table, offering II

backfat and Ukrainian vodka. The topics of the He thought he would never see Marina conversation varied, about Lviv at one again. And yet he met her again, at the end of moment and about Kiev at another one. They his studies, three years later, in Warsaw... at spoke mainly Russian, but some of them spoke ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

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also quite good Polish. They did not hide their reluctance towards their compatriots from the vicinity of Lviv… from Halychyna, as they called this area. To Marek’s surprise, he realized that the Ukrainian nation is not even half as uniform as the Polish.

thousand years, from Olga and Vladimir the Great.” They repaid him with the song Green Ukraine in Polish. In order to honour the hosts in a particular way, he initiated a song to the words of Shevchenko:

“Drink, Marko, brother,” said Mykola. “The wide Dnieper roars and groans ...” “And eat it, backfat is good. We have never They got up and sang while standing as if vodka without backfat. You are an honest guy. it were an anthem. We will never betray you. Live long and The next day, when he walked Marina to prosper!” the hostel, they were already waiting for … “Give a Cossack your hand,” Marek them… they liked him, it seemed. They took interrupted him, citing a famous poem by advantage of refreshments, drank something Shevchenko, a Ukrainian national poet. and snacked, promising to return the favour. “…and give a pure But it lasted much shorter heart”… this time, they excused … and again, with themselves politely, said the name of Christ, we goodbye… already on the will rebuilt our paradise.” stairs Marek and Marina finished Dmytro, who had looked at each other with been seriously silent so a relieved and knowing far. smile. With wheat vodka still buzzing in their heads, they went for a walk around the campus. They both staggered on “I told you that on their feet, at one point he Tuesday hugged her waist lightly ... without any special I would kiss you forty times ...” thought, as if instinctively. She released she accompanied with her clear and herself stiffly. resonant voice, smiling. “I'm not used to it,” she uttered the He wondered what throats they had sentence in Polish, like a lesson learned ... but there – three boys and one girl, quite randomly softly and gently enough so that he did not feel chosen ... and a beautiful choir came out. He offended. She seemed to be convinced that asked them about it. such confidential gestures towards girl friends “We have been Orthodox for centuries in are nothing out of the ordinary in the case of central and eastern Ukraine. Instruments are Polish young men. not used in the church, only the human voice. Obediently, he withdrew his hyperactive And we sing a lot… then we are said to follow hand. She asked him about Wlodek, who, the angelic choirs in heaven. That is why the during their previous stay, was the guardian of faithful participate more in the church service student groups, who had travelled with them than in your country...Yes, and even simple to Krakow and Warsaw three years earlier people have been trained in singing ... for a year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Together with them he sang a cheerful song, “You Have Deceived Me”. Marina joined in eagerly.

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during a trip included in the cultural and moment she added glumly: tourist program. “Biezopasnost … but this is a dangerous At that time, Wlodek and Marina were job. Very dangerous.” constantly together. They appeared a good “I think you like the boys from the pair when you looked at them. He resembled a Security Service?” he asked coldly, genuinely character from a famous Polish painting: a irritated. lancer and a girl. Unfortunately, when you got “No, why! The devils stand behinds to know Wlodek better, he was far from Polish this...and human harm, pain. But I feel sorry lancers. for Wlodek”. Marek tried not to answer, but she insisted. Finally, impatient, perhaps under the influence of the alcohol he had drunk, he said: “Oh, Marina. You still talk about this Wlodek. And I ... I'm on a walk with a beautiful girl. I came such a long way to you ...” “Do not lie, you shutnick (joker),” she interrupted him. “You came to the library, to rummage in manuscripts from the seventeenth century ...” “That's too, for sure. But I'd rather spend my time with you than with the manuscripts. Do you believe me?” he asked and looked into her eyes.

He fell silent, helpless. He walked her to the room. She looked into his eyes and said softly: “Do not be angry. ...“No, no. I am not,” he replied gently. She opened the door and said in Russian: “Zakhodi (come in)”. He entered the corridor, convinced that they would say goodbye in a moment. She did approach, he took her into his arms in a friendly manner just to kiss her cheeks… planning to leave soon. She clung to him with her whole body.

“Well, quite…” she smiled.

“Obnimi. Embrace me,” she whispered. After a while, however, she became sad, “Embrace me.” sighed and began with melancholy: He did what she asked for. She kept repeating softly, as if a refrain, all night: “Oh, Marek. You are a good boy. But what is Wlodek doing now?” “Embrace me ... embrace me with all

He took a deep breath and said:

your strength ... close me in your embraces ...”

“He's already graduated. He works for the secret police of our Polish People’s Republic. The Biezopasnost (Security Service), do you understand?” it was easier for him, in a way, to talk about it in her language, not his. It was all absolutely true, but anyway, somehow he felt shabby having said that. “Of course,” she said softly. After a

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proud that I have received the greatest award of my article which I had written introducing Dr Sushil Kr Jain. If anybody is curious to know India about him,then please open his Fb profile and "Dr Sushil Kr Jain, A God see who is he for the patients coming to Delhi gifted Divine Soul" Apollo Hospital from all over the world for treatment.

– He is one of the most humble son of A kind heart,a divine smile,a pair of peaceful eyes and with two dedicated hands is God,true to his noble profession,Dr Sushili Jain waiting in world of suffering to help the people is a renown surgeon,who has completed about two lakhs surgery successfully with his god who are helpless. gifted hands All these are possible because his He is Dr Sushil Kr Jain,a worthy son of my positive thinking creates a magical aura and beautiful motherland Assam. I met Dr Sushil in his dedication, sincerity, kindheartedness, World fourth hospital of Apollo groups in helping Indraprastha, New Delhi attitudes,devotion, pays In 2000. In my first not only in monitary meeting I was surprised terms,but in many ways to realize his love for the like good will,and his people of Assam. Coming divine attitude towards a back from Delhi,I fellow person without published an article about any motif.So it is said him in the widely about Dr Sushil, he is a circulated Daily paper God gifted divine soul "Amar Assom" which was whose reputation has published in English and been spreading all over Hindi also.Gradually Dr the world. Sushil become popular in – Sushil says, "Pessimism leads to North East India. I began to do appointment for patients of weakness, Optimism to power" He says to the serious patients, "Be strong, because things Assam with a request to help the poor Who will get better,it may be stormy now,but it were bound to go to that costly hospital for the never rains for ever" Dr Sushil says, "Disease love of lives. From then Dr Sushil mentally is it for any kind, It first begins in our head,by transformed to an Angel sent by God to help negative thinking or loosing hope to live,we the human being in distress. must never lose of hope.No disease has power Sushil often told me to overcome your will power I remember, "Baidew(sister)before meeting you I was after recovery from serious disease, someone interested with disease,but when you have said about Dr Sushil." written about me, highlighting my nature,from Medicines cure diseases,but only you I have been learning to love the patients". Now also when I go to meet him ,he very Doctors can cure patients. Dr Sushil is that trustworthy person on whom one can rely politely used to say "Baidew,now where I am with closed eyes both as a Doctor as well as a standing,it is because of you". I really feel year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Punya Devi

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friend and brother relentless service filled Dr. Jawaz Jaffri with dedication For most of the patients he is not human but an Angel . After recovering Critical analysis by Dr. Jawaz Jaffri from a Serious disease successfully operated A flower that blooms in the by Sushil one patient said, "Your hands are our land of Dante – Stephanie national treasure, We must protect you Miola (Italy) Doctor." – In this way Dr Sushil Kr Jain,the top Welcome to the Urdu world most surgeon has been offering top most service to humanity for more than two decades in Indraprastha Apollo Hospital, New Piedmont is a province of Italy located at Delhi. the northern tip of the country. – Anybody from any country could visit Its capital, Turin, is famous for its Doctor Sushil,the pure soul with a shining beautiful architecture, smile . Because Sushil traditional food flavors deserves The world of and delicious coffee appreciation for his aromas. Coffee houses unmatchable efforts to abound in the city, where everybody...."I always feel Italian poets, writers, secured, because of artists and intellectuals Sushil,my brother. Many explore new possibilities times I send Serious for ancient and modern patients those are rich of trends in the fine arts. willing power to live but financially weak for Turin’s global fame treatment. But after stems not only from its recovery they came to me traditional cuisine and and emotionally told me" He is God, not historic buildings, but also from the mountain human "I m very proud that Dr. Sushil Krr Jain, range that stretches across eight European the God send Ambassador of humanity Is the countries and is known to the world as the son of my beautiful Assam,who was first Alps. introduced by a humble Assamese writer, she According to Roman mythology, many is nobody else, but me. peaks of this mountain are sacred, where Roman gods and goddesses live with their families. Fourteen kilometers from Turin is a village called Castle Tornis, where the beautiful Italian poet Stephanie Miola she lives. Stefania Miola, who has won several prestigious international awards, won Italy’s most important annual poetry competition ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

and won a place in the major world poetry As he reads his poems, he is repeatedly selections. drawn to the feeling that he is standing right in In today’s Italy, he is busy adding new the middle of the universe, and the universe is colors to the creative landscape created by the slowly disappearing from all around him. One of the meanings of this feeling is that he as Man famous twentiethcentury Italian poets. Ada Negri, Aldo Palazzeschi, Alfonso is the center of the universe and its other Gatto, Andrea Zanzotto, Gabriele D’Annunzio, meanings are how lonely he is in the universe Salvatore Quasimodo, Giuseppe Ungaretti, as an individual. This is the feeling of Pier Paolo Pasolini, Eugenio Montele, Umberto loneliness that haunts every great poet and Saba and Edoardo Sanguineti Spilled his blood philosopher. Stefania uses nature to heal this and liver. Stephanie is the custodian of this wound of loneliness.

She also has a desire to find good poetry and through this poetry she communicates with her soul. Truth be told, he has done serious work to strengthen the connection between poetry and the soul. year I, no. 8, 2021, February

Stephanie Miola has unveiled the face of the universe through her art, to know the beauty of the world through the beauty of literature, the relationship with the book has helped her to understand life. The development of art is very important to him. It

It is as if nature is the healing of this great creative heritage. Spirituality is the basic color of his poetry and his own temperament wound. The symbolic and metaphorical system she has devised to is mystical. The spiritual express her love for aspect of her poetry in nature is admirable. 21st century Italy should Sometimes she calls not surprise Urdu readers herself a cheek touching that Stephanie Miola her mother’s throat, belongs to the land from sometimes she calls which the great herself a lullaby philosopher Dante’s emanating from her (1265) ‘Divine Comedy’ mother’s lips, sometimes originated. ‫۔‬ she becomes the scent of Like a Sufi, there is a fresh milk, sometimes a constant search in his voice coming from the poetry. This is a never ending search, this search has many angles. outskirts of the universe, sometimes she So he Somewhere it is the search for truth, chooses the metaphor of the dance of somewhere it becomes the search for the raindrops, then the rainbow spread in the sky. unknown, somewhere the search is for peace In addition, the metaphors of weeping, silence, and tranquility, somewhere this search is for wind, lush trees, frozen snow, sea waves and the good man, somewhere it is the search for the rising and setting of the moon and the seal the ideal society, one side of this search is its are also very desirable for him. These symbols own. There is also the caste where she looks and metaphors have created a strange like a Sufi seeking the knowledge of the caste. fascination in his poetic universe.

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gives the universe the status of art and our artistic activities are a continuation of cosmic art. Art Brings peace and harmony in the society and as a result hope is created in the society, enlightenment comes in the society and windows of new ideas and ideas are opened. As you read Stephanie Moyla’s poetry, you can hear the knock on the door of fame and glory that is slowly approaching her door.

poetry anthology In All the Spaces-Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry (2020). and the forthcoming anthology Earth Fire Water and Wind .

Roopali is the Founder-President of YUVATI, a non-profit organization working for equity and justice for children from marginalized communities across India; and the founder of Mera Kitaab Ghar – backyard I’m sure you spread your arms to book clubs and safe, free activity spaces for Stefania Miola Welcome to the Urdu world. children from underserved communities. Below is the BIO of the reviewer Dr Roopali Sircar Gaur. Also find attached her picture and a picture if the book THe GIFT OF LIFE, an autobiography.

Roopali holds a Ph.D. in Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi. She graduated from the prestigious Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, and holds an M.A. and B.Ed. from Osmania University, Hyderabad.

She has traveled widely, and now lives in Reviewer Bio Meerut, India with her retired military spouse Roopali Sircar Gaur, and three dogs. For Ph.D. is a lifelong teacher, creative inquiries, poet-performer, writer, Roopali may be reached environmentalist, and social justice activist. at roopalisircar@gmail.com Roopali retired as Associate Professor of Roopali Sircar Gaur, Ph.D. is a lifelong English from Delhi University. teacher, poet-performer, writer,

She is a widely published columnist and writer, who has written for peer-reviewed journals, and served on academic conference panels worldwide. She has also taught Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. Her interests lie in the fields of gender studies and post-colonial literature. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in African Literature is a seminal text on those subjects. She is the co-editor with Dr. Anita Nahal, of the

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environmentalist, and social justice activist. Roopali retired as Associate Professor of English from Delhi University. She is a widely published columnist and writer, who has written for peer-reviewed journals, and served on academic conference panels worldwide. She has also taught Creative Writing at the Indira Gandhi National Open University. Her interests lie in the fields of gender studies and post-colonial literature. Her book The Twice Colonised: Women in TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

The gift of life A review that left me teary eyed. Thanks a ton Roopali Sircar Gaur . Read for yourself: There is a great Zimbabwean proverb, “Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

A Gift of Life: An Autobiography is the story of a feisty Punjabi woman...Aabha Rosy Vatsa. “I was born on the soil of Punjab....” is the opening sentence filled with pride and selfconfidence. “My nani was a proud Punjabi woman who never gave up on life....a true lioness.” Finding its heritage in the flow of her “fiery Punjabi blood” in her mother, herself and her two daughters. Aabha Rosy establishes her authentic voice in the first line of the book, making us at once convinced of her story. The story begins by telling us of the land of the five rivers. In its linear movement the narrative holds our attention as Aabha Rosy traces her growing up in a small town government housing colony whose metropolitan values stay with her. Her schooling in missionary convents both, in India and in Zambia, provide access to libraries and literatures from other countries, and stir the mind of the young author. A beautiful carefree childhood stacks her with the mental and moral resilience to bear suffering and take action against a turbulent

African Literature is a seminal text on those subjects. She is the co-editor with Dr. Anita Nahal, of the poetry anthology In All the Spaces-Diverse Voices in Global Women’s Poetry (2020). and the forthcoming anthology Earth Fire Water and Wind . Roopali is the Founder-President of YUVATI, a non-profit organization working for equity and justice for children from marginalized communities across India; and the founder of Mera Kitaab Ghar – backyard book clubs and safe, free activity spaces for children from underserved communities. Roopali holds a Ph.D. in Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi. She graduated from the prestigious Mount Carmel College, Bangalore, and holds an M.A. and B.Ed. from Osmania University, Hyderabad. She has traveled widely, and now lives in Meerut, India with her retired military spouse and three dogs. For creative inquiries, Roopali may be reached at roopalisircar@gmail.com.

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marriage, constricting social attitudes towards love and marriage, and an alcoholic partner. We also see how her rigorous her intellectual training in the arts and sciences helps her to find a successful space in creative writing.

strong feminist figure, who the author internalises to be able to break free of social traps. And all through her becoming she never forgets her duty to her daughters. The schizophrenic life with which married women in India and elsewhere live, is translated into “reality’ by cunning and cruel familial and social situations. What would stand out for a reader is the amazing grace and compassion displayed throughout the narrative where anger and bitterness are not directed at any particular individual. Spiritual strength prevails ...as strong as the Ganga river besides which Aabha Rosy grew up, flowing purposefully…Every chapter begins with a poem written by the author who is also a wellknown poet.

Through years of chafing, of subversive ill treatment where medical treatment for schizophrenia is used as a weapon to subjugate, and erase, is reminiscent of the mad woman in the attic. Madness as a metaphor is used specifically for women - as seen in literary texts, cinema and inreal life - to silence and eliminate them. The narrative is replete with details that are personal, social, political and historical. Its smooth and dripping flow remain in full control of the skillful author as she takes the The autobiography reader on a roller coaster becomes ours too as the ride, experiencing life to final chapter and words the fullest, guided by surrender themselves to a enlightened parents, world brought together books, nature, disciplined and brought to its knees teachers, and friends. by a pandemic never to have been experienced The book is the relevant tale of not just a before. person, a woman but also the simultaneous The book’s conclusion is startling. growth of a country, the experiences and Writing for her becomes a “political act”. episodes in its making, its deep religious Women’s writing is just that. The book spiritual foundations. It presents a fascinating concludes on a hopeful note, putting behind record of the past, juxtaposed with the stark personal angst in embracing the pain and reality of the present -- the assassination of loneliness of others. As we set down the book India’s Prime Minister Indira Gandhi in 1984, we celebrate the choices the author freely and the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic. makes and silently marvel at the strength and The book allows the reader to be privy to beauty that come our way. a fascinating journey, detailed and sensitive to every little nuance, and happening as the butterfly comes out of the chrysalis. The Goddess Kali appears predominantly as a

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Anna Maria Stępień Poland

Agnese Monaco – Interview You are a multifaceted artist. Tell us more about your passions, your talents. Yes, that’s true. I am a writer, a poet, a painter and a musician, too; registered to SIAE (Società Italiana degli Autori ed Editori), DOR and OLAF. Born in Rome in July 1979. I studied literature (so I am a graduate in Letters h.c, as far as my education is concerned). I write books of poetry, novels, fables, musical texts, and apart from that, I have worked with “big names” of the Italian music scene, for theater (in two comedies), including Cambia Canale and a short film (Redini di vita) on the possible causes of depression. In my writing I also experimented with oxymorons, paradoxes, haiku, aphorisms, essays, and reviews. My texts have been translated into English, French and Spanish, and published both in Italy and abroad. I am present in the literary world since 1996. I won many competitions in Italy and in other European countries as well as in the USA, including Premio Alto Patrocinio, Croce Rossa Italiana, Premio Internazionale di Poesia Coluccio Salutati, Editor’s Choice Award by poetry.com and The International Library of Poetry (2007, USA), the first place in Concorso Internazionale Po & sia Meltin Books. I always try doing my best. My work is appreciated: I received the certificate of merit issued by the OPE (European Parliamentary monitoring year I, no. 8, 2021, February

centre and the Council of Europe), for professionalism and valuable cooperation for the success of the contest. In the 2011, my collection of poems “E’ solo l’inizio” was released. I also took part in competitions dedicated to painting – in numerous exhibitions in Italy and abroad. My versatility is visible in painting and sculpture as well: I create mosaics, copper reliefs and other works, all in innovative new styles. My paintings are often presented in various exhibitions in Italy, Europe and worldwide. I write and speak in English, Spanish and Italian. In my spare time I love learning other languages. And I am always careful to protect animals and to volunteer; in fact, I often made contributions to these causes. In 2013, I was a candidate helping animals and nature in two municipalities of Rome. How did it all start? Who inspired you? It started in the 1990s, when reading poems of great authors gave me (a very little girl) light breezes and intense beats. Enthused by great verses and lost in them totally, I wanted in a way to express my voice myself. Shy and introverted, I kept my writings for me, until I started expressing what I felt through the school newspaper. My first approaching “the outside world”. That experience was also a starting point for my evolutionary breakthrough in this field. In fact, it gave me the strength to try to compete in the first poetry competition in 1996. At the time it was not like now, there were not all these computer means, so being among the noticed ones and included in a serious anthology was really a great step forward. Taking into account the fact that in this competition I was

confabulation 36-46

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throughout Europe, Latin America and Japan, “Nel Nome del Padre in Onore del Prof. Giovanni Monaco” dedicated to my Father, Prof. Giovanni Monaco, in his honor (in Italian, too), a book in memory of my father with poems of mine and his. Lastly, “Sine Memore”, in Italian so far. The poetry anthologies written by me concern the finalists of my 100 TPC editions. I am the official organizer for Rome of the 100 thousand poets for change (La giornata mondiale della poesia con Agnese Monaco; in 2020 the edition was online). I write about a wide range of topics: nature, peace, feelings such as joy or pain, time, What motivates you? And on the fraternity, etc. Life and feelings are the basis of my poetics. contrary, what makes you feel discouraged? I know that you How do you deal with love animals. How discouragement? important are they in your life? Love of the language

the youngest of the participants, I can consider it as one of the greatest personal debut experiences. From that moment, I decided to try presenting my writing in several competitions and find a match of my poetics both in the public and among the experts in the field. I haven't stopped since that day. I have cried, suffered, laughed, rejoiced at the successes and failures, but have never given up. That's my strength, always go ahead and believe with all of myself in what I do. I was inspired by reading great poets and my sensitivity which allowed me to see life in a different way.

and the possibility of Yes, I love animals. expressing and I'm a zoophilic guard, so a manifesting my feelings sort of a “policewoman and emotions is what volunteer” who helps motivates me most. against animal crime. I Expressing myself and don't know if it exists being seen and heard by abroad, I mean this type audiences around the of volunteer activity. I world is very nice. Superficiality is something also help various associations by donating that I don’t approve of and that makes me money from my books or events. discouraged. I make everything trying to help You are a very active person. What and share culture and art. actions are you engaged in? Tell us more You are the author of many books. about the events organized by you. Poetry, prose, essays, fables, even such Currently, the anthology of 100TPC forms as oxymorons, haiku, paradoxes or 2020/2021 online edition is being published, aphorisms. We would like to know more and the money from the sale will go to charity about them. How many books you have to buy operation kits for children born with published so far, what topics are vital for facial malformations – for Operation Smile you, what you write about. Italia, Rome, and a small part will be donated So far, I've written five books and four anthologies. The fifth anthology is currently in publication. “E' solo l'inizio” was just the beginning, in Italian; then “Metamorfosi” – also in Italian, multilingual “TriAde”, sold

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to Amici di Fido in Rome, as in previous years. Tomorrow there will be an online presentation of my book “Sine Memore”, and the money will be donated to the Mabello Association of Cervinara province of Avellino TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE

Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

(Southern Italy). New online events are being Loreta Toader scheduled. There are no in-person events in the time of the pandemic. Romania

soarele îmi mângâie fața scăldată de lacrimi iar curcubeul îmi pictează sufletul regenerându-i sentimentele.

pictură – Alexandru Darida - In search for light –

What would you like to say to the readers of Taifas Literary Magazine? Some În căutarea luminii golden thought or a piece of advice for people in these strange times of a pandemic. Am fugit, am fugit cu toată ființa mea For the readers, writers, poets… încercând să-ajung gândurile din urmă. I just want to give everyone a strong Viața mă izbea biciuindu-mi sufletul. virtual hug. We have lost loved ones, our lives Respirul mi-era spintecat de loviturile atâtor have changed in terms of habits, economically cuvinte durute și neînțelese. and emotionally. I feel it is truly worth doing Alergam… alergam fără să aud, fără să your best in life, doing what you love, and being good to others. Good deeds, charity, văd; nu mai simțeam, nu mai știam dacă miera cald sau frig, nici de mi-era zi sau de mi-era respect for people, noapte…picioarele nu mă animals and nature are mai ascultau iar mâinile, the basis for being reborn mâinile încercau să se in a better world. And as agațe de acel ceva încă far as authors are nedefinit. concerned, I can see that for a poet who writes Doar ochii îmi books and tries to sell cercetau sufletul them without live, inîntrebând: mai poți?!!!… person events it is much N-am știut să harder to do because răspund așa cum n-am books are an expensive știut câtă durere și câte and not a primary asset to lacrimi am strâns în gând. the survival of the body, Am obosit. M-am oprit din but they are for the survival of the mind. I write with good deeds on my mind, and as you alergat mergând cu pași repezi spre niciunde. have seen, despite having a lot of poems, I do În mine ploaia își revărsa boabele-i de jad not release books unless for a specific reason. rescriind povestea unei noi renașteri…am I hope to see you all online tomorrow for the adormit pe iarba udă; gândurile mi-au poposit presentation of my book on pe verdele crud al primăverii insuflându-mi www.facebook.com/AgneseMonacoOfficial and on tinerețea pierdută cândva…inima a început să instagram: @monacoagnese. bată încet, liniștit – zbuciumul ei a rămas undeva în trecut- un trecut greu înțeles, Thank you all and follow me on social aproape inuman – acum uitat. media. Simt o căldură benefică- ploaia s-a oprit;

Am deschis ochii și m-am pierdut în year I, no. 8, 2021, February

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albastru – un albastru divin, imperial- the sense of an urgency that transcends poetry itself. Her new book, Nobody (Cape, £10), is a albastrul ochilor tăi, Doamne… M-am înveșmântat în verdele renașterii kind of verse novel which refuses even the conventions of storytelling. It contrasts the pe care mi l-ai oferit a doua oară. destinies of those two mythic seafarers, Am început să alerg andante prin viață Agamemnon and Odysseus, but it does so percepând lumina în fiecare culoare a without narrative explanation, taking us with existenței sale: rece, caldă, neutră, difuză pe wild lyricism straight to a nightmarish sufletul și gândurile mele ce țipau libertate… meditation on drowning: “What a relief to hear his flesh / with hair and clothes flaring backwards like a last-minute flower / hit the Fiona Sampson sea and finally understand itself”.

Nobody by Alice Oswald Nobody by Alice Oswald; If All the World and Love Were Young by Stephen Sexton; In Her Feminine Sign by Dunya Mikhail; and I May Be Stupid But I’m Not That Stupid by Selima Hill

Poetry is changing. And it’s not just spoken word and Instapoets who are changing it: at long last, diverse voices and experiences are getting a proper hearing. Across the English-speaking world, new work in every genre is demonstrating impatience with older, static verse forms. The best new writing has a kind of velocity that seems to burst open the traditional idea of single poems pinned and mounted on the page. Alice Oswald, the first woman to serve as Oxford professor of poetry, has long forced open poetic form. Among her previous books have been a radio poem, a herbarium and a dramatic monologue after Homer. She’s a revolutionary, an eco-poet whose ideas are alive with sensory experience. These seeming paradoxes create exceptional resonance, and

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If Oswald is a pioneer, she’s not alone in creating this new kind of beauty. Stephen Sexton is a Northern Irish poet whose astonishing debut is If All the World and Love Were Young (Penguin, £9.99). Don’t be put off by the title, or the cover designer’s lazy use of Nintendo font to play up trendy hauntology. The writing itself hardly draws breath; it’s crowded and confident in range and depth. Sexton takes the risk of avowing both the high stakes he’s writing for, and his emotional presence, within the poems themselves: “I want my monument to be composed of light as you might say / so you can see it friend not things themselves but the seeing of them / the light stopping on them tree I adore you I adore you world”. If poetry is “about” anything, then If All the World is about cancer, bereavement, family life, natural and material worlds and the nature of memory. Despite this range it is quite astonishingly through-composed. Like Nobody, it is a book to gulp down at one sitting, then to return to, to savour.

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Taifas Literary Magazine, No. 8, February, 2021

Adepoju Adeola

Pabith Man Rai

Nigeria Country Bhutan

My sweet lass Witness the heaven's creep Before your eyes are put into sleep, I shall birth in the bright of stars, And drop you a mortal ray : It shall churn your dreams with pearls --Till the leaves and legumes of a new day Are left by the fresh feet of dews' delightful stay. I shall on the big branches of a dreamy sky With furs and feathers of a light there sit by -To see you deeper travel the teeth of yawn : My sweet lass, will you wake next new dawn?

12. PEACE WE NEED. Earth has even wore the sad attire, Pleading to the combatants to cease the fire, The casualties have even cried and tired, For their souls have continue to wandered, The war-mongers should come over the fury, Of what benefit will be the state of gory? Stop the war and preach the peace, For the word need to be at ease.. Iwan Dartha Indonezia

10. Nuance of Love Mystery of the time full of sincerity on earth graceful of affection touches taste of life vibrates all the best beautiful nuances of love

The walls smell good wise religious figure nice inspirative writes emit the essence of diction the most beautiful phrase: oh.. I am still breathing

year I, no. 8, 2021, February

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The magazine appears in Romania editorial office Founding President Lenuș Lungu Director: Lenuș Lungu, Ioan Muntean Deputy Director: Paul Rotaru Technical Editor Ioan Muntean Covers Anişoara Iordache Editor-in-Chief: Ion Cuzuioc Deputy Editor: Stefano Capasso Editorial Secretary: Anna Maria Sprzęczka

yaer I, no. 8, February, 2021

ISSN 2458-0198 ISSN-L 2458-0198 Founded in Constanţa, June 2020

Editors: Vasile Vulpaşu, Anna Maria Sprzęczka, Pietro Napoli, Myriam Ghezaïl Ben Brahim, Zoran Radosavljevic, Suzana Sojtari Iwan Dartha, Auwal Ahmed Ibrahim, Destiny M O Chijioke, Nikola Orbach Özgenç Responsibility for the content of texts published in the journal belongs directly to the authors who sign them, in the name of freedom of expression.

Taifas Literary Magazine

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Authors in summary: ANIŞOARA IORDACHE (PHOTOS), MUHAMMAD ISHAQ ABBASI 2, KHALED MAHMUD KHAN 2, PAUL ROTARU 3, SWAPANJOY CHOWDHURY 6, MARUF SHAIKH 7, MAID CORBIC 8, ZAKIR MALIK 10, TANU VERMANI KAPOOR 11, BHAGIRATH CHOUDHARY 11, EWITH BAHAR 12, ARUNDHATI MUKHERJEE 13, SAHADEV BEHERA 14, SELMA KOPIC 14, RAMESH CHANDRA PRADHANI 15, CLIVE NORMAN 15, DR. ANA MARÍA MANUEL ROSA 16, MYRIAM GHEZAÏL BEN BRAHIM 17, ZAINUL HUSAIN 18, DURBADAL GHIBELA 18, JAY-AR NHOR 18, VILDANA STANISCIC 19, BISWAJIT ADITYA 19, SUGAR ZEDNA 19, DR. SONIA GUPTA 20, MUHAMMAD ISHAQ ABBASI 20, AFROSE SAAD 21, SLAVKA BOZOVIC 21, OMAR NASSAR 22, JOANNA SVENSSON 23, DR. HASMUKH MEHTA 23, DESTINY M O CHIJIOKE 24, KAMRUL ISLAM 24, SELMA KOPIC 25, WORDS 25, MARUF SHAIKH 25, ELIZA SEGIET 26, SAI PRAKASH 26, SANTOSH KUMAR 27, VEN-LYN A. VALDEZ 27, MIHAI KATIN 28, GERLINDE STAFFLER 29, PRINCE STEVE OYEBODE 29, SALOMÉ JACOBS 30, ZORAN RADOSAVLJEVIĆ 31, SAHDO BOSNJAK 31, CLIVE NORMAN 36, LORENZO MARONE 36, MIROSLAW GRUDZIEŃ 37, PUNYA DEVI 41, DR. JAWAZ JAFFRI 42, DR ROOPALI SIRCAR GAUR. 44, THE GIFT OF LIFE 45, ANNA MARIA STĘPIEŃ 47, LORETA TOADER 49, FIONA SAMPSON 50, PABITH MAN RAI 51, ADEPOJU ADEOLA 51, IWAN DARTHA 51

ISSN 2458-0198 - ISSN-L 2458-0198

TAIFAS LITERARY MAGAZINE