Anthology Naji Naaman's Literary Prizes 2017

prix littraires
premios literarios
naji naaman's
literary prizes
2017
FCG fondation naji naaman

pour la culture gratuite
Prix Littraires Naji Naaman
Naji Naaman's Literary Prizes
Premios Literarios Naji Naaman
2017
Ont contribu la publication du prsent livre

Have contributed to the publication of the present book
Han contribuido a la publicacin del presente libro
Engineer Antoine Chaker Chemaly
&
Balqis Al-Melhem
Extraordinary Ambassador of Gratis Culture (FGC)
Tous droits rservs All rights reserved Todos los derechos reservados
1re dition, aot 2017 1st edition, August 2017 Primera edicin, agosto 2017
ISBN N 978-9953-580-73-9
Maison Naaman pour la Culture
Le prsent livre est gratuit. Les demandes de copies, commentaires des mdias et rflexions
personnelles sont reus l'adresse sous-mentionne.
This is a free of charge book. Copies request, media comments and personal reflections are
received at the under-mentioned address.
Este libro es gratuito. Las peticiones de copias, los comentarios y las reflexiones personales
se reciben en la direccin abajo mencionada.
FGC Naji Naamans Foundation for Gratis Culture

non-governmental and non-profit organization
(license N 454 dated March 9, 2011)
P.O.Box 567 Jounieh (Lebanon)
Fax and Phone: 009619935096
Web site: www.najinaaman.org
E-mail: info@najinaaman.org
http://www.facebook.com/naji.naaman
les prix
Lancs en 2002, les prix littraires Naji Naaman sont dcerns chaque
anne aux auteurs des uvres littraires les plus mancipes des points de
vue contenu et style, et qui visent revivifier et dvelopper les valeurs
humaines.
Les manuscrits littraires (penses, posies, contes, etc) d'un maximum de
40 pages, de toutes langues et dialectes, composs, accompagns du
curriculum vitae et d'une photographie artistique de l'auteur, sont reus par
la Maison Naaman pour la Culture (par la poste ou par e-mail) jusqu' fin
janvier de chaque anne. Les manuscrits qui ne sont pas crits en franais,
anglais, espagnol ou arabe, doivent tre accompagns d'une traduction ou
d'un rsum dans l'une de ces langues. Les prix sont dclars avant fin mai
de chaque anne au plus tard. Il n'y aura pas de retour de manuscrits alors
que les uvres primes publies dans la srie littraire gratuite cre par
Monsieur Naaman en 1991 deviendront la proprit de la maison.
Les laurats porteront le titre honorifique de membre de la Maison Naaman
pour la Culture.
prizes
Released in 2002, Naji Naaman's Literary Prizes are awarded to authors of
the most emancipated literary works in content and style, aiming to revive
and develop human values.
Literary manuscripts (thoughts, poems, stories, etc) of 40 pages at most, in
all languages and dialects, typeset, with the curriculum vitae and an artistic
photography of the author, should be sent (by post or e-mail) to Maison
Naaman pour la Culture before the end of January of each year.
Manuscripts written in languages other than English, French, Spanish or
Arabic must be accompanied by a translation or rsum in one of the
aforesaid languages. Prizes will be announced before May of each year.
There will be no return of manuscripts, and prizewinning works published
within the free of charge literary series of books established by Mr. Naaman
in 1991 will become the property of the house.
Laureates will bear the honorary title of member of Maison Naaman pour la
Culture.
6- Les prix Prizes Los premios -193
los premios
Creados en el 2002, los premios literarios Naji Naaman tienen la finalidad
de premiar aquellas obras literarias ms creativas desde el punto de vista
del contenido y del estilo, y que desarrollen e impulsen los valores
humanos.
Las obras podrn estar escritas en cualquier lengua o dialecto, si esta no
fuera francs, ingls, espaol o rabe debern ir acompaadas de una
traduccin o resumen en cualquiera de estas lenguas. La extensin de las
obras (ensayo, poesia, relato, novela, etc) sern de un mximo de 40
pginas. Los originales y en su caso la traduccin, sern entregados o
enviados junto al c.v. y una fotografia del autor a la direccin (por correo o
por e-mail). El plazo de entrega finalizar el ltimo da de enero de cada
ao. El fallo del jurado se har publico a ms tardar el ltimo da de mayo
de cada ao. No se devolvern las obras presentadas. Las obras
ganadoras publicadas en la serie literaria gratuita creada por el Seor
Naaman en 1991 sern propiedad de la casa.
Los ganadores recibirn as mismo el ttulo honorfico de miembros de la
Maison Naaman pour la Culture.
fifteenth picking season: 2016-2017.

number of candidates and manuscripts: 2160.
received from: 64 countries:
Albania Algeria Argentina Australia Azerbaijan Belgium Brazil Bulgaria
China Croatia Cyprus Czech republic Denmark Egypt France
Germany Greece Georgia Hungary India Iran Iraq Italy Japan
Jordan Korea Kosovo Kuwait Latvia Lebanon Macedonia Malaysia
Mauritania Montenegro Morocco Netherlands Oman Pakistan Palestine
Poland Portugal Romania Russia Saudi Arabia Serbia Slovenia
Slovakia South Africa Spain Sweden Switzerland Syria Tchad Tunisia
Turkey Ukraine United Arab Emirates United Kingdom United States of
America Uruguay Uzbekistan Venezuela Vietnam Yemen.
number of prizewinners: 52.
prizes yearbook in: 44 languages and dialects:
Albanian, Arabic (literary and several spoken dialects), Aromanian, Azeri, Bulgarian,
Chinese, Croatian, Czech, Danish, Dutch, English, French, German, Georgian,
Greek, Hebrew, Hindi, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Kurdish, Latvian,
Macedonian, Malaysian, Montenegrin, Persian, Polish, Portuguese, Romanian,
Russian, Serbian, Shona (Bantu), Slovenian, Spanish, Swedish, Tagalo, Turkish,
Urdu, Vietnamese and Uzbek.
laurats et uvres primes
laureates and prizewinning works
galardonados y obras ganadoras
2017
prix du mrite - merit prizes - premios de mrito:

Ado Wons, from Brazil (At Quando, in Portuguese and English, p. 11); Marven
Ghanem, from Lebanon (Lubnan, in Lebanese dialect, p. 113); Mostafa Ateia Jomaa,
from Egypt (Cinama ma badal-Hadatha, in Arabic, p. 106); Nayanika Dey, from India
(Those Love Letters, in English, p. 75); Rania Masoud, from Egypt (Mazoufatun
Naqdiyyatun ala Qitharatis-Sard, in Arabic, p. 124); Sergiu Gabriel Berindea, from
Romania (Despre Sexul Femeii, in Romanian and English, p. 79); Toth Arpad, from
Romania (Criasa Naturii i Copiii Ei, in Romanian and English, p. 92).
prix de crativit - creativity prizes - premios de creatividad:

Adel Fouda, from Egypt/Oman (As-Sarab, in Arabic, p. 119); Ahmad Al-Akhras,
from Jordan (Malak Tawus, in Arabic, p. 132); Ahmad Nabil Ahmad, from Egypt
(Madinatun bila Malaika, in Arabic, p. 130); Alisa Vela, from Albania (Koh pr t
Qar, Koh pr t Qeshur, in Albanian and English, p. 12); Andreas Polycarpou, from
Cyprus (/Donoussa, in Greek and English, p. 24); Angela-Melania Cristea,
from Romanaia/Macedonia (Ultima Ediie, in Romanian and English, p. 26);
Annamaria Ferramosca, from Italy (Urti Gentili, in Italian and English, p. 28);
Antonino Caponnetto, from Italy (Bacio alla Terra, in Italian and English, p. 30);
Asror Allayarov, from Uzbekistan (Tombs A and B, in Uzbek and English, p. 33);
Aya Yussuf Teama, from Egypt (Al-Mutawaffa, in Arabic, p. 134); Cheikh Ahmad
Mahmoud Nouh, from Mauritania (Noubouatul Ma, in Arabic, p. 122); Cornelia
Pun Heinzel, from Romania (Timp, in Romanian and 35 other languages and dialects,
p. 44); Dimitris P. Kraniotis, from Greece ( /Moins Un, in Greek and French,
p. 59); Hanane Ettouji, from Morocco (Nakbatul Alamil-Kubra, in Arabic, p. 125);
Hiba Albeity, from Saudi Arabia (Sa Akhounou Khiyanataka, in Arabic, p. 104);
Ibrahim Adnan Yassine, from Lebanon (Elwara wil alam, in Lebanese dialect, p.
133); Ikromkhon Valikhonov, from Uzbekistan (Wail, in English, p. 64); Intissar
Hassan Mishrah, from Yemen/Ukraine (Shakawtul-Qassida, in Arabic, p. 128); Issam
Sad Hamad Khairallah, from Egypt (Oskot ya Abuna, in Arabic, p. 116); Kalpna
8- Laurats-Laureates-Galardonados -191
Sing-Chitnis, from India/U.S.A. (Bare Soul, in English, p. 67); Kazem Al-Wahid Al-
Anzi, from Iraq/Sweden (Baghdadu Wahjon lam Yazal, in Arabic, p. 114); Klaudia
Muntean, from Romania (Nostalgii, in Romanian and French, p. 68); Mohamed El-
Jay, from Morocco (LInspecteur Bleu, in French, p. 72); Mourad Elkhatibi, from
Morocco (La Wahdata badal-Yawm, in Arabic, p. 107); Muhamad Alasedy, from Iraq
(Ghiyab, in Arabic, p. 112); Muhamad Iqbal Harb, from Lebanon (Al-Haqiqa, in
Arabic, p. 111); Muhamad Najib Tawfiq Hassan Matar, from Egypt (Al-Mawtu
Hayyan, in Arabic, p. 110); Nina Malinovski, from Denmark (Mske Ender Alting
Godt, in Danish and English, p. 76); Oana Calusa, from Romania (Metamorphosis, in
English, p. 79); Omama Mustafa Al-Lawati, from Oman (Azfun Munfared, in Arabic,
p. 129); Salah Mansour Hammoud Al-Warafi, from Yemen (Istirja, in Arabic, p.
120); Samah Hafez Al-Imam Al-Gamal, from Egypt (Lamlim Baqayaka, in Arabic, p.
122); Syed Liaqath Peeran, from India (Evergreen Pastures, in English, p. 85); Tang
Yi, from China (/Mt. Peng is Still Green, in Chinese and English, p. 87).
prix d'honneur - honor prizes - premios de honor:

(uvres compltes - complete works - obras completas)
Ana Caliyuri, from Argentine (Cabalgata Etrea, in Spanish and English, p. 14); Anca
Mihaela Bruma, from Romania (Te Simt!..., in Romanian and seven other languages
and dialects, p. 17); Ayub Khawar, from Pakistan (Symphony, in English, p. 38); Gilles
Garnier, from France (Voyages, in French, p. 61); Jagdish Prakash, from India (I am
Seventy Seven, in Indian and English, p. 66); Larbi Benjelloun, from Morocco (Fi
Sohbati Ibn Battouta, in Arabic, p. 118); Marilyne Bertoncini, from France (LAnneau
de Chillida, in French, p. 70); Stanka Boneva, from Bulgaria (, /They,
those Mists, in Bulgarian and English, p. 83); Vladislav Vlahovic, from Montenegro
(isto Kao Suza/As Clean as a Whistle, in Montenegarn and English, p. 96); Virginia
Murru, from Italy (Certe Volte i Poeti sona Ingenui, in Italian and English, p. 94); Xu
Chunfang, from China (/The Dirge of a Beloved Girl Baby, p. 99).
ADO WONS
ALISA VELA
ANA CALIYURI
ANCA MIHAELA BRUMA
ANDREAS POLYCARPOU
ANGELA-MELANIA CRISTEA (ANGI CRISTEA)
ANNAMARIA FERRAMOSCA
ANTONINO CAPONNETTO
ASROR ALLAYAROV
AYUB KHAWAR
CORNELIA PUN (CORNELIA HEINZEL)
DIMITRIS P. KRANIOTIS
GILLES GARNIER
IKROMKHON VALIKHONOV
JAGDISH PRAKASH
KALPNA SINGH-CHITNIS
KLAUDIA MUNTEAN
MARILYNE BERTONCINI
MOHAMED EL-JAY
NAYANIKA DEY
NINA MALINOVSKI
OANA CALUSA
SERGIU GABRIEL BERINDEA
STANKA BONEVA
SYED LIAQATH PEERAN
TANG YI
TOTH ARPAD (ARTANGEL)
VIRGINIA MURRU
VLADISLAV VLAHOVIC
XU CHUNFANG
Ado Wons
Brazilian writer and poet, born on November 6, 1971 (Cotipor, Brazil). Detached in
contemporary literature since 1987 when he began writing for newspapers and cultural
Fanzines. Current editor of the Cultural Cotipor which publishes contemporary literature.
With several writings published around the world, prizes and cultural activities.
crivain et pote brsilien, n le 6 novembre 1971 Cotipor (Brsil). son actif
sinscrivent des crits, des prix et des activits culturelles.
AT QUANDO/UNTIL WHEN
(full text - texte intgral - texto completo - (
Poem in Portuguese, with English version.
AT QUANDO
At quando
ogivas nucleares e msseis
teleguiados por ambies e dio
mutilaro inocentes?
At quando
rosas nucleares de Hiroshima
vivero nos jardins do mundo?
At quando
artilharias mergulharo
num mar de sangue?
At quando
a intolerncia e poder desfilaro
nas memrias de Stalingrado e Fall Weiss
valero mais que vidas?
12- Ado Wons -199
Ah, pobre homem iracional

no sabe que
a batalha termina onde tudo comeou
e o destino igual para todos.
No h vencedores nem derrotados!
UNTIL WHEN
Until when
missiles and nuclear warheads
guided by ambition and hatred
will mutilate innocent people?
Until when
nuclear roses of Hiroshima
will live in worlds gardens?
Until when
artilleries will plunge
in seas of blood?
Until when
intolerance and power and parade
in the memoirs of Stalingrad and Fall Weiss
will be worth more than lives?
Ah, poor irrational men
They do not know that
the battle is over when it begins
and the destination is the same for all:
There will be no winners nor losers.
Alisa Vela
Albanian poetess, born in 1982 (southern port-town of Vlora, Albania). With a Ph.D. in
Languages and Literature, she is currently teaching the Introduction to the Science of
Literature and Creative Writing at the "Aleksander Moisiu" University in Durres, Albania.
13- Alisa Vela -191
Her poems have been translated into English, Romanian, Turkish, Portuguese, Hebrew and
Swedish.
Potesse albanaise, ne en 1982 Vlora (Albanie). Avec un doctorat en langues et
littrature, elle enseigne luniversit Aleksander Moisiu (Durres, Albanie). Ses pomes
ont t traduits en anglais, roumain, turc, portuguais, hbreu et sudois.
A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO CHEER

KOH PR T QAR, KOH PR T QESHUR
Poem in Albanian, with English version by Arben P. Latifi.
KOH PR T QAR, KOH PR T QESHUR

Do t vij nj koh, mik,
Kur do gj do t ndodh:
Nj koh pr t qar,
Nj koh pr t qeshur.
T gjitha do t vijn,
T gjitha do t shkojn.
mbetet do t jet m shum se hi fjalsh.
E nesrmja kujdeset pr vetveten;
Ne mjaft t mos kalojm para kishs s inateve.
Thuhet, atij vendi ka vrar veten gjarpri.
Hija e tij as q duhet ti afrohet hijes son.
Nis nj zheg q t merr frymn pastaj
Dhe neve na duhet ajri m shum se padurimi.
Nj koh pr t qar do t vij,
Nj koh pr t qeshur, gjithashtu.
Asgj smund t nxitet,
Asgj smund t ndalet.
Ve korbi mos u shfaqt n qiejt tan
Me copza ylberi ngarkuar prmbi flatra
E ne t mos kemi forc tia ndalim fluturimin!
Gjithka tjetr, pas ksaj, i prket s nesrmes.
Dhe e nesrmja kujdeset mrekullisht pr veten.
Kujdeset mrekullisht pr mua dhe pr ty
A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO CHEER

A time will come, my friend, when everything will happen:
a time to weep, a time to cheer.
14- Alisa Vela -191
Everything will come, everything will go.

What endures, will be more than ashes of words.
Tomorrow can take care of itself.
We just take care of steering clear of the church of grudges.
The place, it is said, is where snakes commit suicide;
no way their shadows come anywhere near ours!
Otherwise, a suffocating heat will break loose,
and we'd need air much more than impatience.
A time to weep will come, my friend, and so will a time to cheer.
Nothing can be prompted, nothing can be stopped.
I would but ravens visit not our skies, with loads of rainbow shards on their wings,
and we be powerless to stop their flight!
Everything else, afterwards, is up to tomorrow.
And tomorrow can miraculously take care of itself.
Of me, of you, of us both, it will miraculously take care as well
Ana Caliyuri
Argentinian novelist and poetess, born on July 23, 1955 (Ayacucho - Argentina). With
several published books, prizes and cultural activities.
Romanire et potesse argentine, ne le 23 juillet 1955 Ayacucho (Argentine). son actif
sinscrivent des livres publis, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles.
CABALGATA ETREA/ETHEREAL RIDE

Poems in Spanish and English.
CABALGATA ETREA
En la hora
de la transparencia
un corazn cabalga
15- Ana Caliyuri -191
sobre dos siluetas.

Todo es color
incluso las notas
que laten etreas.
ETHEREAL RIDE
In the hour
of the transparency
a heart rides
over two silhouettes.
Everything is colour
even the musical notes
that beat in the air.
Translated by Julin Municoy Hunt
VERSO MILENARIO
Hay una melancola
Aferrada a mi almohada,
una versin antigua
de mujer frgil
parece habitarme.
Nada ms mgico
y menos justo
que romper
el oleaje
con un verso milenario
entre las manos.
MILLENNIAL VERSE
There is a melancholy
Gripping my pillow,
an early version
of a frail woman
it seems to inhabit me.
Nothing more magical
and less fair
to break
the waves
with a millennial verse
in his hands.
Traslated by Munir Mezyed
Naji Naamans literary prize (creativity prize, 2007)
16- Ana Caliyuri -113
UNA FLOR ANTIGUA

Ahogar
esta sed
en silencio
y con nfasis.
Por ensima vez
me siento
bacanal
en el rostro
caballeresco
de una oda
antigua
y eternamente
vigente.
Tal vez
me despellejar
la acera
o tal vez
ser una estpida
condena
por no ser rosa
en las letras.
AN OLD FLOWER
I'll drown
this thirst
in silence
and with emphasis.
For the umpteenth time
I feel
bacchanalian
in the knightly face
of an old ode
and eternally present.
Maybe
the sidewalk
will peel me off
or maybe
it'll be a stupid
sentence
for not being a rose
in the letters.
Translated by Hernan Patan
Anca Mihaela Bruma
Romanian educator, lecturer, performance poet, eclectic thinker, mentor with staunch multi-
cultural mindset and entrepreneurial attitude. She considers herself a global citizen, having
lived in four continents. Her eclecticism can be seen in her intertwined studies, she pursued:
a Bachelor of Arts (Romania) and a Master of Business Administration (Australia). With
several writings, prizes and various cultural activities, she was translated into several
languages.
ducatrice, potesse et crivaine roumaine, ayant vcu dans quatre continents! son actif
sinscrivent des crits, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles. A t traduite en plusieurs
langues.
TE SIMT!...
Text in Romanian, with translations into
English, French, Italian, Spanish, Croatian, Hindi and Tagalo.
TE SIMT!...
Te simt n totul ...
In interiorul incandescent al ochilor tai din glorioasele nopti,
acolo... unde fluturi imi impletesc visele
si imi masoara ale inimii cadente...
Te simt n totul ...
In timp ce-ti odihnesti in coltul literei al tau suspin,
pe iarba albastr ce ngenuncheaz la grania dintre vis i primvara.
Te simt in totul
In ritmicele apusuri alor tale prologuri si absente,
in cuvintele nerostite transformate in pietre nedormite.
Te simt n totul ...
Cnd respiraia-ti ti-o conjug cu versurile-mi acustice,
n tcerea pailor tai ajunsi la capatul ochilor mei.
18- Anca Mihaela Bruma
-111
Te simt n totul ...

cnd octava prezentei tale eu o degust,
o frumusee fluorescent fosnind n infuzari teatrale.
Te simt n totul ...
n fiecare moment concentric si infocat din trecut,
in ritmul euforic al senzaiilor samsarice i filarmonice.
Te simt n totul ...
n ale tale similaritati tcute i reflecii ondulate,
pe tiparul respiratiei mele, ale tale ganduri sunt justapuse.
Te simt n totul ...
atunci cnd nelinitea-ti roieste n interiorul venelor mele lirice
si reflect in spatele fetei asupra presimtirilor tale, luminandu-le.
Te simt n totul ...
De-a lungul tuturor toamnelor fr ecou si dimineailor multiplicate,
ca tu sa ma reinvii din nou din propria mea iarna fara de sfarsit!
Te simt n totul ...
Chiar acum scriind aceste versuri si sigilindu-le cu un sarut!
Dragul meu! Iubirea aceasta in inima mea doar creste si uita de trecut!
I FEEL YOU!...
English version by the poetess
I feel you in everything...

in the glorious nights inside your incandescent eyes
where butterflies knit my dreams and compass my heartbeats.
while resting your sigh in the corner of a letter
and the blue grass kneels at the border between dream and spring.
in the rhythmical sunsets of your absences and prologues,
within your unspoken words turned into sleepless stones.
when I conjugate your breath with my acoustic verses,
in the silence of your footsteps, on the tip of my eyes.
when I swallow the octave of your presence,
a fluorescent beauty rustling in theatrical infuses.
-111

in all scarlet concentric moments of the past,
in the euphoric tempo of samsaric and philharmonic sensations.
in all your silent similarities and rippled reflections,
when your thoughts are juxtaposed with the pattern of my breathing.
when your restlessness rotates inside my lyrical veins
and I wonder behind my face highlighting your insights.
during all echoless autumns and multiplied mornings,
when you come to resurrect me from my own lasting winter.
when I write this letter now and seal it with a kiss!
Mon chri! It has been growing inside my heart!...
JE TE RESSENS!...
French version by James Cairns
Je te ressens en tout...
Dans les nuits glorieuses tapies dans tes yeux incandescents
O les papillons qui tricotent mes rves battent leurs ailes contre mon cur.
En reposant ton soupir au coin dune lettre
Et lherbe bleue sagenouille la lisire entre rve et printemps.
Dans les couchers de soleil rythms par tes absences et tes prologues,
au sein des mots non dits convertis en des pierres en veille.
Quand je conjugue ton souffle avec mes vers acoustiques,
dans le silence de tes pas, au bord de mes yeux.
Quand javale loctave de ta prsence,
une beaut fluorescente dont lclat scintille travers des infusions thtrales.
Dans tous les moments carlates concentriques du pass,
dans le rythme euphorique de sensations philharmoniques et de samsara.
-111
Dans tes similarits silencieuses et les ricochets de tes reflets,
quand tes penses sont juxtaposes au trac de mon souffle.
Quand ton agitation coule travers mes veines lyriques,
et que je reste perplexe derrire un visage qui reconnit tes perceptions.
Durant tous les automnes sans cho et les matins infinis,
quand tu viens me rveiller de cet hiver ternel.
Quand jcris cette lettre maintenant et que je la scelle dun baiser!
Mon chri! Tu restes toujours au fond de mon coeur !...
TI SENTO!...
Italian version by James Cairns
Ti sento in ogni cosa ...

nelle notti meravigliose dentro i tuoi occhi incandescenti
dove farfalle fondono i miei sogni insieme
e stanno battendo le loro ali contro il mio cuore pulsante.
mentre metto il tuo sospiro in un angolo di una lettera
e l'erba blu si inginocchia ai confini tra i sogni e la primavera.
nei tramonti ritmici delle tue assenze e preludi,
dentro le tue parole inespresse trasformate in pietre irrequieti.
quando coniugo il tuo respiro con i miei versi acustiche,
nel silenzio dei tuoi passi, sull'estremit dei miei occhi.
quando assaporo l'ottava della tua presenza,
una bellezza fruscio fluorescente che freme sotto infusi teatrali.
in tutti i momenti concentrici scarlatti del passato,
nel ritmo euforico delle sensazioni trascendentali e filarmoniche.
in tutte le tue somiglianze silenziosi e riflessioni increspate,
quando i tuoi pensieri sono in contrapposizione al motivo del mio respiro.
-111

quando la tua irrequietezza scorre nelle mie vene liriche
e mi chiedo dietro una faccia che rivela le tue intuizioni.
durante tutte le autunni senza eco e le mattine senza fine,
quando vieni per svegliarmi dun sonno eterno.
quando scrivo questa lettera e la Sigillo con un bacio!
Mio caro! Sei sempre stato nel mio cuore!
TE SIENTO!...
Spanish version by Vga Vgapox Lucas Lazar
Te siento en todo...
En las noches gloriosas dentro de tus ojos incandescentes,
donde las mariposas tejen mis sueos y los latidos del corazn.
Mientras descargo un suspiro en la esquina de una carta,
y la hierba azul se arrodilla entre la frontera de un sueo primaveral.
En los atardeceres rtmicos de ausencias y prlogos,
dentro de tus palabras tcitas convertidas en piedras de insomnio.
Cuando conjugado el aliento con mis versos acsticos,
escucho el silencio de tus pasos, y en las cumbres de mis ojos.
Cuando me trago la octava de tu presencia,
infundiendo una belleza fluorescente, crujiente y teatral.
En todos esos momentos escarlatas y concntricos del pasado,
en el tiempo eufrico de samsricas y Filarmnicas sensaciones.
En todas nuestras silenciosas similitudes y onduladas reflexiones,
cuando tus pensamientos se yuxtaponen con el patrn de mi respiracin.
Cuando tu inquietud gira dentro de mis venas lricas,
y me pregunto por tu rostro destacando el entendimiento.
-119
Durante todos esos otoos multiplicados cada nueva maana,
cuando vengas a resucitarme desde mi propio largo invierno.
Cuando escribo esta carta y la sello con un beso!
Cario! Has crecido dentro de mi corazn!...
OSJEAM TE!...
Croatian version by Sonja Smolec
Osjeam te u svemu...
u velianstvenim noima unutar plama tvog oka
gdje leptiri pletu moje snove i usmjeruju otkucaje mog srca.
dok se tvoj uzdah odmara u uglu pisma
a plava trava se klanja na granici izmeu sna i proljea.
u ritminim zalascima sunca tvojih odsutnosti i poetaka
izmeu tvojih neizgovorenih rijei pretvorenih u besano kamenje.
kad spajam tvoj dah s mojim stihovima koji odjekuju,
u tiini tvojih koraka, u nagibu mog oka.
kad progutam oktavu tvog prisustva,
fluorescentnu ljepotu koja uti u teatralnom ulijevanju.
u grimiznim koncentrinim trenutcima prolosti,
u euforinom tempu samsarinih i filharmonijskih osjeaja.
u svim tvojim tihim slinostima i namrekanim odsjajima,
kada su tvoje misli suoene s uzorkom mog disanja.
kada se tvoj nemir kovitla unutar mojih lirskih vena
a ja se udim potajno naglaavajui tvoje razumijevanje.
za vrijeme bezglasnih jeseni i umnoenih jutara,
kada dolazi da me uskrsne iz moje vlastite dugotrajne zime.
23- Anca Mihaela Bruma -111
sada dok piem ovo pismo i peatim ga poljupcem!
Mon chri! To je sazrilo u mom srcu!...

Hindi version by Archna Pant
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AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO

Tagalo version by Roy Mark Azanza Corrales
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA GABING

MALUWAHATI SA KANINANG NG IYONG MGA MATA PAWANG MGA PARUPARO
NAGHABI NITONG MGA PANAGINIP AT NAGING KAGABAY KOMPASS SA MGA TIBOK
NG PUSO 2. AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY AKO AY
NAMAMAHINGA SA IYONG BUTONG HININGA SA BAWAT SULOK NG ISANG SULAT AT
PAGLUHOD DAMONG ASUL SA HANGGANG NG PANAGINIP AT TAGSIBOL
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA BAWAT
TAKIPSILIM NG ARAW ANG IYONG DI PAGPAKITA AT MGA PAUUNAHAN YUGTO SA
PAMAGITAN NG MGA DI MO MASABING SALITA NAGING MGA DI MAKATULOG NG
BATO
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA AKING
PAGBIGKAS ANG IYONG PAGHINGA NA NAGBUO NG MGA AKROSTIKONG PANUNULA
SA BAWAT NANANAHIMIK PAGYAPAK , ITOY NASA DULO NG AKING MGA MATA
-111
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA AKING PAGSALO

NG MGA OCTAVE , IYONG MALIWANAG KAGANDAHAN TUMUTUNOG KAHIINTULAD
NG TEATRO ITONG KALALIMAN NAIPALABAS 6. AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG
LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA LAHAT NG LUNTIAN UMALIDAYOG PANAHON
NANG NAKARAAN SA UMILIDAYOG TIYEMPO NG SAMSARIC AT MGA
PHILHARMONIKONG SENSASYONS
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA LAHAT NG
KATAHIMIKAN PAGKA HAHAWIG AT PAGNINILAY DUMADALOY SA PANAHON ANG
IYONG KAISIPAN AY PAREHONG NAKAPWESTONG PAGHINAG
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA PANAHON IYONG
PAGKALITO UMIIIKOT SA LOOB NG AKING UGAT NA LIRIKO AKO MINSAN
NAGMANGHA SA LIKOD NG IYONG MUKHA NA NAGPAPANINING NG IYONG TAROK
NG KAISIPAN
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY . SA PANAHONG
ANG LAHAT NG TAGTUYO AT MGA ILANG UMAGA IKAY DUMATING UPANG AKOY
BUHAYIN NITONG TAGLAGIM
AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA PANAHONG
AKING PASULAT NG LIHAM AT ISELYO NG HALIK Mon Cheri ITO AY LUMAGONG SA
KAIBUTURAN NG AKING PUSO
Andreas Polycarpou
Cypriot poet and journalist, born in 1984 (Cyprus), living in Athens (Greece). He is
elaborating his Ph.D. thesis in Greek civilisation and ecstatic religion. His first poetry book
was in 2006; In 2010 he published his second poetry
book , and in 2013 his third poetry book . In 2014
his theatrical play was also published. In 2016 his third
poetry collection was republished in Athens. With several prizes and various cultural
activities, he finds inspiration in the Ancient Greece and promotes all historical and
mythological heroes in our days giving them the ability to act and interact through the lines
of his poems.
Pote et journaliste chypriote, n en 1984 (Chypre), vivant Athnes (Grce). son actif
sinscrivent plusieurs livres publis, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles.
/DONOUSSA
Poem in Greek with English version by Yannis Goumas.
25- Andreas Polycarpou -111

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DONOUSSA
I remember those summers
with the thirsty sand
and the sun cooling off its freshness
in the blue salinity.
26- Andreas Polycarpou -113
Together we walked down a lane

buried in reeds
and olive trees
shading your eyes.
Through crushed seashells
I passed hairy chords.
In a Cycladic chapel
I enchanted time by chanting.
You hid deep in the sand,
waiting for the first rains in autumn.
I told you that these will separate us,
but you didnt believe me.
At the altar
a priest is dealing cards.
Opposite him, Christ on the Cross
was bathed in summer light.
Come winter,
you were looking for my hands.
These too were cut off
and left lying by the olive trees.
From one ledge of the rock
flowed the holy water.
With this I rinsed your eyes
before their colour frayed.
These are depressing times.
Dont be taken in by what strangers have to say.
Keep the summers,
the scenes, the sun, the sea.
Angela-Melania Cristea (Angi Cristea) ) ( -

Romanian poetess of Macedonian origin, born on December 25, 1976 (Craiova, Judeul Dolj,
Romania). Master in Romanian interwar literature, with several published works, prizes and
cultural activities.
27- Angela-Melania Cristea - -111
Potesse roumaine dorigine macdoine, ne le 25 dcembre 1976 Craiova (Judeul Dolj,

Roumanie). Elle a son actif des crits, des prix et des activits littraires.
ULTIMA EDIIE/LATEST EDITION

Poem in Romanian and English.
ULTIMA EDIIE
aerul mbcsit miroase a cerneal mut
a sudoare viril/muncitorii luminii beau zeloi la comun chinin/
scriitorii i descal condescent papucii casnici
n pragul eternitii
ascund clciul ahileic n burta chitului
nghiind singurtatea/cucut amar/
ca pe un pete distrofic
ai ascuit rutina zilei pe acoperiul ncins
scrib lasciv i tvleti fericirea asimptomatic
n dulcele stil verba volant
la terase latr maidanez extravagana oral
cu degete teite se numr banii/ultimii mohicani ai scrisului/
m scriu pe cord deschis
mprind celule din vena siliconat/capsule aseptice/
redactez ultima ediie fr anestezie
la pagina trei
strecor guterul roz al cuvintelor trana(n)te
n patul tu s-au mutilat procustian
cuvinte dezarticulate
LATEST EDITION
clogged air smells of ink moves
manly sweat/light workers shared zealous drink quinine/
household slippers shoes off his condescension writers
the threshold of eternity
hiding in the belly of the whale heel ahileic
engulfing loneliness/hemlock bitter/
as a fish dystrophic
daily routine of sharp hot roof
scribe lascivious wallow you happiness asymptomatic
in the sweet style verba volant
Oral extravagance barking stray terraces
28- Angela-Melania Cristea - -111
tapered fingers are money/last Mohicans of writing/

I write open heart
silicone vein dividing cells/capsules aseptic/
latest edition editor without anesthesia
on page three
green lizard pink slip tranche of words (n) te
in your bed were mutilated procustian
disjointed words
Annamaria Ferramosca
Italian poetess and writer of critical essays and reviews, born in Tricase (Lecce, Italia), but
currently living in Rome. With several poetry collections published since 1999, she is the
recipient of numerous awards, including the Premio Internazionale Forum, for Porte/Doors,
and the Premio Astrolabio, for Curve di livello, as well as coming joint finalist in the Premio
Camaiore, Premio Pascoli and Premio Montano. Some of her poems have been translated
into English, Greek and Romanian.
Potesse et critique italienne, ne Tricase (Lecce, Italie), vivant Rome. A publi
plusieurs collectiuons de pomes et a reu plusieurs prix. Elle a t traduite en anglais, grec
et roumain.
URTI GENTILI/GENTLE COLLISIONS

Poem in Italian, with English version by Anamara Crowe Serrano.
URTI GENTILI
mi manca la lingua mi manca
quella timidezza di vocali aperte
di zeta dolce nel grazie
un incurvarsi della voce in gola
come a piegarla fossero le pietre
salentine del ricordo o forse
una malinconia residua della nascita
29- Annamaria Ferramosca -111
ingorgo che resiste

allo sperpero del vivere
furore dei cieli di una volta
grida bianche dei dolmen che insistono
nel vedere il mattino sorgere
sulle rovine ogni volta
qualunque sia linclinazione della luce
mi manca quella strana paura
prima di ogni viaggio
come un sottile rifiuto della distanza
come di albero che impone alle radici
un limite allespandersi e si concentra
sulla cura dei frutti
pure amo
tutto questo calpestio di genti nella citt
limpasto lento di animelingue
il rompersi dei meridiani linarcarsi dei ponti per
urti gentili
questo annodarci annodando
i cesti della fiducia con antiche dita
GENTLE COLLISIONS
I miss my tongue I miss
the shyness of those open vowels
the soft zed in grazie
the curve of my voice in the throat
as if bent by the Salentine
stones of memory or even
some residual sadness from birth
an impediment that resists
the squandering in life
raging skies of long ago
white cries of dolmens that insist
on seeing the dawn rise
over ruins every time
regardless of the angle of light
I miss that strange fear
before every journey
like a subtle refusal of distance
or a tree imposing a limit to the spread
30- Annamaria Ferramosca -111
of its branches so it can focus

on tending its fruit
yet I love
the stomp of all these people in the city
the slow fusion of soul-tongues
meridians breaking bridges arching over
gentle collisions
this inter-weaving as we weave
baskets of trust with ancient fingers
Antonino Caponnetto
Italian poet and translator, born in 1950 (Catania, Italy). With published works and various
cultural activities.
Pote et traducteur italien, n en 1950 Catania (Italie). son actif sinscrivent des livres
publis et diffrentes activits culturelles.
BACIO ALLA TERRA/LAND KISS

Poems in Italian, with English version.
BACIO ALLA TERRA
I
Con me ti porto amore come un tempo
quando nel caos di enormi
fiumi di gente eternamente in fuga
ti nascondevo agli indiscreti sguardi
dei delatori con il mio cappotto.
31- Antonino Caponnetto -111
II
Ho baciato la terra su cui insieme
siamo sbarcati amore come tutti
gli scampati alla morte
come chi sa per certo che il naufragio
cambia la poca vita che ci resta.
III
Arder in qualche cuore
oltre noi stessi sempre nuovo il fuoco
e tu vivrai amore in tutti quelli
che senza avere patria n bandiera
ai demoni del nulla dicono: voi non siete!
LAND KISS
Translated by Karen Costa and the poet
I
I take you love with me like the time
when in the chaos of massive
rivers of people constantly on the run
I hid you from the indiscreet gazes
of informants wearing my greatcoat.
II
I kissed the land on which we
disembarked together my love like
those who escaped death
like those who know that a shipwreck
changes the little life we have left.
III
It will burn into some hearts
beyond ourselves, ever new, the fire
and you my love will live in all those people,
who, with no homeland nor banner at all,
to the demons of nothing they say: you are not!
LA BELLE PUTAIN
I
Un anno prima della Grande Guerra
sei gi la tenutaria del bordello
tra rue de Babylone e rue Vaneau
32- Antonino Caponnetto -119
E c con te tua figlia, la pi bella

fra le puttane della Casa molti
le fanno omaggio di collane e rose
Nella sala dattesa stanno a gruppi
le persone influenti, gli affaristi
Al portone dabbasso in lunghe file
clown, esuli, banditi, matti, artisti
II
Ora di nuovo e sempre il tuo paese
muove guerra alle genti miserande
cancellandone lanima e la vita
perch ne sorga, altrove, un Eldorado
Non l, dove non pu nessuna bella
puttana disgregarne il meccanismo
LA BELLE PUTAIN
Translated by Alba Gnazi
I
A year before the Great War
you already are the bawd of the brothel
among rue de Babylone and rue Vaneau
And with you is your daughter, which is the most
beautiful of the whores in the House many
pay tribute to her with laces and roses
In the waiting room stand in groups
the influential people, the businessmen
At the downstairs door in long queues
clowns, exiles, outlaws, artists, fools
II
Now again and ever your country
wages war to pitiful people
erasing their soul and life
for elsewhere may rise El Dorado
Not there, where no beautiful whore can
disrupt its mechanism
Asror Allayarov
Uzbekistani short stories writer and journalist, born in 1986 (Uzbekistan). Recepient of
several prizes, some of his short stories and poems were published in Bulgaria, Italy, Saudi
Arabia, Kazakhstan, Cuba, USA, Kyrgyzstan, Japan, Serbia, India, Bangladesh, Argentina,
Canada, Chile; and some of his works were translated into English, French, Italian,
Philippines, Persian, German, Turkish, Russian, Hindi, Serbian, Spanish, Arabic, Kazakh,
Bulgarian, Kyrgyz, Karakalpak, Japanese, Slovenian, Vietnamese and Albanian.
Nouvelliste et journaliste ouzbek, n en 1986 (Ouzbkistan). son actif sinscrivent des
publications, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles. Traduit en plusieurs langues.
/TOMBS A AND B
Short story in Uzbek and English.

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34- Asror Allayarov -111
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TOMBS A AND B
Welcome to the city cemetery. It is a wooden road sign that points to the right at
the end of the divided main road. Indeed, there are two roads in northwest Karshi and one of
them leads to the city block named Cemetery.
All the buildings of the city feel like coffins, the only difference is they have doors
and windows. There are empty coffins beside the houses for the volunteers who wish to
experience one night sleeping in the coffins in the yard. Night time is especially exciting.
Registration starts from early morning so that everyone is in the proper line. However, some
unsuccessful ones have to postpone the exciting night in the coffins. It is because there are
only twenty-nine graves in alphabetical order.
The bustle of the city is silenced in the evening soon after tradesmen close up their
businesses. Shopkeepers who sell grave cloth, cigarettes, juice, and pillows close their shops
and depart home to rent coffins. It is the common routine here. They are not supposed to
distract tourists so that they feel the complete silence and experience the life in coffins.
The overseer looked over the coffins to check whether everybody was in their graves.
Passing by tombs A and B, he moved toward tomb C. An old man from Shahrisabz lying in
tomb D asked, Are you in your place?
Yes, I am.
The old man nodded. After checking the graves, the overseer bolted the only lock of
the fence and put the no responsibility letters into his bag. These letters are written by the
people renting the coffins for one night and they ensure that people hold their own
responsibility for safety.
Leaving the cemetery for home the overseer declared, Do not distract each other!
The entire city block was captivated by the silence of night, and the moon was
covered by clouds. Jackals expressed their hunger. Nearby a woman just beside the fence
shrieked from horror. A man next to her comforted her, Do not worry. They can not jump
over the fence.
As the temperature fell, the soil grew moist. It was impossible to sleep an entire night
in this position. A mattress should be taken inside the coffin.
A young man from tomb A took a mattress inside the coffin and let his mind dream.
He tried to sleep, but the coffin was not a comfortable place to rest. His heart was captivated
by the horrors of the cemetery. Soon he dreamed again. Something moved on his body and
seemed to multiply.
A girl from tomb B screamed in horror and appeared beside tomb A. Can I stay here
for a while? Can you come outside?
A young man came out and saw a seventeen-year-old girl in atlas (traditional Uzbec
clothes). She was standing in terror looking at the sky, as the earth was horrifying to her. I
should not have come here, but I am curious about the experience in the coffin. God knows
what will happen before morning.
You seem to be a confident girl. Just think about the morning when you will go
home and everything will be all right. He was trying to forget about the horror.
My name is Hadicha, the girl said.
Mine is Izzat.
Where is the toilet? I should have asked the overseer to show me.
Of course, it is over there, just beside tomb O.
Thank you. What has made you visit here? the girl asked. Usually only old people
are interested in the cemetery.
There are some reasons. What about you? You are very young. You may get
infected with incurable diseases here. It is not a safe place.
I just wanted to be alone. Once I attempted to commit suicide. My parents sent me
here so that I would not repeat it. The silence in the cemetery is so pleasant, that I have
never felt it before this. What should I pay attention to when I am alone in the coffin?
You just think about the dawn and thats enough.
I think now I can not sleep in my coffin. The girl faced him while coming back
from the toilet.
You can sleep on that bed, if you wish. But I am afraid you can not feel the warmth
of the coffin.
I cannot imagine visiting here again.
Yes, it seems you are not ready to experience cemetery life for the second time.
Indeed, people usually come to this cemetery city only once.
Look! The moon is appearing behind the clouds.
Oh, then hedgehogs will come. Dont panic if they fall into your coffin. They are not
dangerous.
The girl and the young man sat on the bed next to tomb A. Some other people, who
could not stand the insects creeping on their bodies, came out of their graves and sat on the
bed. Some old men ran to the toilet as they could not hold their feces in their coffins. It was
midnight.
I feel like I am among dead people. Perhaps, that is the thing people come here to
experience.
The girl stared at the young man for some time.
But I am fond of the silence of the cemetery. Here nobody can interfere with your
life. You are the king of your life.
Are you a writer? the girl asked.
Yes. I am writing a novel about this cemetery city. But I am not sure whether any
publishing house will accept it, because nobody believes the story.
There are two things that make a writer famous. The first is talent, another is politics.
A writer is not a writer without them.
Oh, then I am the poorest writer in the world! I possess neither of them.
You know, talent is a unique thing. It represents neither a color nor a look. You can
feel it only when it explodes in you, the girl said excitingly.
But my only enemy is talent. I suffer it. It does whatever it wants to me.
The girl asked, Are you going to complete your novel tonight?
Of course. You will be the first reader.
Good.
Suddenly, the girl shuddered and jumped up and down until two cockroaches dropped
on the ground. They rushed to come inside the coffin. The girl took her mattress in her
coffin and cleaned off the insects. Lying in her coffin, she stared at the sky for a long time.
Finally, she forgot about the horror and slept in peace.
In the morning, the overseer woke up everybody and someone asked him, Why does
nobody sleep in tombs A and B? Why do you not rent them?
Two years ago a young man and a girl rented them. I do not know how, but a huge
pile of wet soil fell on their tombs and nobody noticed until they were dead. After this
tragedy, nobody rented tombs A and B.
Ayub Khawar
Pakistani poet, born on October 12, 1948 (Chakwal, Punjab). He did his Master Degree in
Urdu Literature from Karachi University in 1974. The detail of his contribution to Urdu
poetry and production of PTV programmes is very long. He worked in PTV as Producer,
Director and Playwright of drama serials, series, and long plays. He also produced quiz
shows, talk shows, musical shows, reality shows and literature based programs and got
retirement in 2005, when he joined GEO TV. In reward of his huge contribution he was
bestowed several awards. As a poet his work included: Gul-e-Mausam (1992),
TumhainJanay Ki JaldiThi (1998), BohatKuchKho Gaya Hai (2009) and MohabbatkiKitab
(2012); also Symphony & other Poems (translated from Urdu to English).
Pote pakistanais, n le 12 octobre 1948 Chakwal (Punjab). Il a suivi une longue carrire
la tlvision. son actif sinscrivent des livres, plein de travaux, des prix et des activits
culturelles.
SYMPHONY
Poem in English, translated from Urdu by
Muhammad Shanazar
Naji Naamans literary prize (honor prize for complete works, 2015), and FGC ambassador.
Gracious guests have arrived

Famous South Asian historians,
Poets, music scholars, dignitaries
Of literature, critics of art,
Vocalists and musicians of global fame,
Representatives of musical houses
Painters, sculptors, people devoted to art
39- Ayub Khawar -111
And culture, civil celebrities,

Electronic media, film technicians
Ambassadors belonging to
The European Continent, America,
Central Asia and the Third World
Countries, including admirers
Of poetry and music: are all present here.
In front of them on the stage
Are individuals of the orchestra,
Sitting on their predetermined positions
In different postures.
I go on watching this magical spectacle
Through the lenses of different cameras.
From that spot all the artists appear to be,
Filled with astounding acumen,
They emit extreme delight,
Their shining faces intensely wrapped
In a mysterious bliss,
Inexplicable resolve and prudence.
In the background a collage is drawn
By the designers,
On the pattern
Of great masters of cubism and abstract art
And filled it with the cuttings
Of horrific news, slices of dried flesh
And blood, burned buildings,
The charred skeletons of living beings,
Broken but appalled innocent eyes.
This is a flat piece of land,
Situated on the highest peak,
Of a gigantic mountain range.
On one side of this smooth field,
Is a milky white building,
With a stage set in front of it.
Some guests are busy talking
With a gentle murmuring,
Half spoken sentences, sophisticated jokes,
And joyful giggling.
Host invites the spectators to be attentive,
For a few moments.
Ladies and gentlemen!
The sun will soon descend,
On the other side of the hills,
And the evening will prevail.
Thank you all, for coming,
Before the evening has befallen.
I request your complete silence,

Since this symphony requires tranquillity,
Before it begins.
For it is its vital element.
Ladies and gentleman!
A meaningful but attentive silence
All of them sat alert on their seats,
In a manner as if they werent humans,
But were statues of clay,
Of stone or of metal.
In this static moment,
The conductor stood up and with soundless steps,
Walked towards the stage.
Stopped for a moment,
Contracted his height, and bowed to the audience
In a decent manner,
Then rose up
And partially faced the orchestra.
With a conductors baton gracefully held,
Between two elegant fingers.
He opened his arms,
In such a state of absorbance
As birds unfurl their wings
To assimilate peace and serenity,
Pulsating in the ambiance.
All the musicians are sitting,
Very attentively in their places,
Waiting for a slight gesture.
But the conductor stood still having his baton
Between two elegant fingers.
The first sound that
Miraculously emerged in the silence,
Was the throb of the hearts.
As if the heartbeats of the guests of different ages,
Became a pattern of natural rhythm.
The wind opened her eyes
And came down from the branches of trees silently,
A step above from the ground,
She tinkled her anklets;
Appraised herself from all angles.
Then she placed her steps onto the ground
As if a musician infuses a touch
Of his fingers into the strings of Tanpura,
Then she managed her movement
Within greens around her,

To set up the master note, SAA.
When cooing of the wild pigeons
And Peehoo of papihas merged
In the rhythm of throbbing hearts;
Then from the thick branches
Of the green trees,
Pleasant chirping of sparrows,
Along with the cooing of the cuckoo
Knocked at the heart of the wounded dove.
Magical spell of the sweet song
Of the nightingale
Touched to the heart of Myna.
The whole jungle knows
What kind of fragrance emits,
From the sound of a Myna.
She came out,
Of her nest with opened wings
A squirrel jumped on the peeled off skin,
Of a dead tree and scampered
As delicate fingers of an artist,
Move to and fro on the keyboard.
At the same moment those delicate pores
Placed glow of soft touches,
On the keyboard-knobs.
The wind lifted her heels,
Looked at the sun;
Twirled her back,
Woodpecker and the partridge,
Showed her the fundamental note,
When she returned,
After descending on the predetermined note,
The rhythmic cycle rose like whirlwind.
The rhythmic pattern of the symphony,
Along with the whirlwind,
Spread into the undulation of the valley of the blood.
In such a magical manner
As hordes of deer appeared
Bouncing strides from all sides
Of the plane amid the trees.
Deep blue, milky white
And green coloured peacocks,
Bearing rustle of peace within their wings,
Binding whirlpool of cosmos
With their feet,

Drenched into such a dance
As if they have heave the climate,
Of peace into their respective rhythmic cycles.
Along with the wind the chorus of leaves,
Flowers and sparrows performing wonders,
As it went on growing faster and faster.
The sun too, while burning in its own fire
Was getting cool and cooler.
The evening became thick and dark,
From each vein of the broken bangle
Of the moon,
The music of blue blood falling,
Down in the atmosphere
The heart beats of the guests were the part of symphony
Which arranged by jungle and the dwellers of jungle
And now
The deep humming of orchestra
Surging as if the ocean is awaking
It is the moment of real creation,
In which the dancing wind
Stretched her limbs with a enchanted spell,
Adorned the blue crystal of moon,
On her forehead,
And started moving on her toes,
Along with the whirls of beats,
Then fell straight on the predetermined note.
After showing a glimpse of full body-length
Stood upright, then she tinkled her anklets
By choosing a peculiar rhythm
From the ambiance to touch the peak of the performance,
At the same moment those who were sitting
Spellbound on their seats
A rainbow of numerous colours began to grow in their
Green, blue, brown and black eyes.
Exactly at that moment, the conductor who stood still,
Looked at the audience,
The beholders saw as if his sinews were
Charged with the electric current.
The symphony oozed out from each pore,
Of his body like a magic
And moistened the whole environment.
At least twenty-five Cellos, Violas
And flowing over violin-strings,
Were the dancing phalanges.
And the entire range of different instruments,

From all over the world,
Along with the population of jungle,
Were playing and singing
The tale of wounded Dove.
The magic of the symphony,
Awoke the old sea sleeping on the ruined civilizations,
From its deep slumber.
The old sea awoke,
Rubbed its eyes, enfolded its fingers,
Gradually came into surge,
Grooves in the channels of blood,
Of the performers, soaked with the melody
Going through the knobs of the keyboards
Stood straight on apex of the valley of blood,
With its all depth and boundlessness.
Symphony on one side
Was dressing the wounds of the wings of dove
With the soft musical notes
And on the other side she was absorbing
The wondering sounds of nature
Initiated by the jungle that was knocking
At the celestial Throne across the skies;
Meanwhile, the dove complimented the song:
Lets sit together
And melt the rhythm of peace,
In the colours of melody.
And reveal secrets of the hearts,
Drag heavens onto the earth.
Lets repair broken bangle of the moon,
And fetch out a new sun
From the deep sea of the night.
Lets sit together.
The desire of the dove
Melted into few droplets of tears
And mixed into the sea,
A strange commotion occurred in the abyss of the sea,
Waves rose within themselves like Tsunami,
Transforming into a dance of peace and tranquillity.
The morn of universal peace, emerging from the dark
When the symphony was embracing its zenith:
The heels of wind, twirling and twisting
Hence, they began to bleed.
She released her anchal from her hands,
In such a manner as to waft over the valley,
Like a rainbow in the clouds.
And the sea, at this complementing phase of climax,

Passing through the watery channels,
Began to rain on stone-like silences
Of the blood-stained valley.
Waves turned into drops,
Then into grains, transformed then into fog,
That merged with the rainbow.
Overspread from the East to the West,
Engraved into the cities, the towns,
Villages, bazaars, schools, factories, blocks,
Streets, houses, walls and windows,
And into the hearts of the kids, young and old.
O! My Lord!
It is my dream since cohered
In the corner of my tearful eyes;
Loop within loop,
The disseminated breath of it
Which lay dispersed,
Put them into a string.
My Lord!
Turn my dream into a living breathing reality.
Cornelia Pun (Cornelia Heinzel) )(

Romanian poetess and journalist. Professor engineer with the scientific title of Doctor of
Industrial Robots, 1998 (Bucharest Polytechnic University), Master in Educational
Management and Evaluation (Faculty of Psychology, University of Bucharest), in 2002,
Master in Teaching Philological Subjects (Faculty of Letters, University of Bucharest),
licensed of Philology, Romanian Language and Literature - French Language and Literature
(Faculty of Letters, University of Brasov), Diplomat in mechanical engineer, Technology of
Machine Construction (Faculty of TCM, Brasov University), with ten, receiving double
distribution in higher education and research, a field in which she works until today and
electrical engineer, Transport (Polytechnic University of Bucharest). In 2007-2013 she was
trained experts of the Ministry of Education in Educational Management. She completed
three graduate courses, and in 2012-2013 she received a grant to Germany, MUNCHEN
GOETHE INSTITUTE in the area of specialization Multimedia Frerschein Daf- Das Internet
als Quelle FR Materialien und Projekte. With six published books and over 200 articles in
45- Cornelia Pun -111
Romania and abroad, as well asd worldwide interests. Some of her writings were translated
into 38 different languages.
Potesse et journaliste roumaine. Docteuresse en gnie des robots industriels. A t traduite
en 38 langues.
TIMP
Poem in Romanian and 35 other versions.
The poems of Romanian poetess and writer Dr. Cornelia Pun Heinzel have been translated in well over
38 languages, by personalities of international literary fame such as the Spanish director film-maker,
dramatist, poet and actor Alfredo Cernuda, Portuguese poet Susana Custdio, famous Andorian writer
Albert Salvad, writer Emanuel Stoica from Sweden, Dr. Mandisodza from Zimbabwe, Ali Neshan, Dr.
Shahnr Sepahpour, Kurdish poet Hussein Habasch from Syria, Albanian poet Baku Ymeri, actor
Constantin Themelis from Greece, Theresia Swiebel from The Netherlands, Russian artist Andrey Vlasov
from Ukraine, Ana Lacanski from Serbia, Judte Alpa from Letonia, Polish artist Krystyna Magorzata,
Tomoko Taneichi, artist from Japan, Slovenian engineer Zvonko Mokricky, as well as colleagues from the
educational field, such as the chief trainer of the Ministry of Education, inspector Margaret Fulop,
professor Chirea-Constantin Simion, one group of Diplomats from the Embassy And not the least, by
the following young collaborators students: Robin Mandisodza, Ioana Zaharia, Robert Cretescu, Mihaela
Nicolae, Florentina Ivanov, Andra Costan, Hasan and Zeynep Koskun, Saher and Liana Dana, Georgia
Bajdechi and Anna Cake.
TIMP
Romanian version by the poetess
Fiecare moment are propria lui semnificaie ,
Pentru mine, pentru tine, pentru el.
n fiecare clip are loc o aciune important,
Timpul este totdeauna hotrtor,
Fiecare moment poate oricnd schimba viaa ta, a mea, a lui,
Astzi, mine, poimine, pentru totdeauna.
Pentru un scurt moment, poi fi un mare rege, Peste mine, peste tine, peste el,
ntr-o singur clip, poi s pierzi, Totul, puin, sau nimic...
TEMPS
French version by the poetess
Chaque moment a sa propre signification,
Pour moi, pour vous, pour lui.
Dans chaque instant il y a une action majeure
pour moi, pour vous, pour lui.
Chaque moment est dcisif
Pour moi, pour vous, pour lui.
Chaque moment peut changer votre vie.
Aujourdhui, demain, aprs-demain, pour toujours

Le bon, mauvais, ou pas du tout.
Pour un seul instant,
Vous pouvez tre un grand roi
Sur moi, sur vous, sur tout,
Dans un seul moment
Vous pouvez perdre tout, un peu ou rien.
TIME
English version by the poetess
Every moment has its own meaning, significance,
For me, for you, for him.
In every moment there is an action important
Time is always crucial,
Any moment can forewer change your life, mine, his,
Today, tomorrow, after tomorrow, forever.
For a brief moment, you can be a great king,
Over me, over you, over him,
In a moment, you can lose,
Everything, a little or nothing ...
ZEIT
German version by the poetess
Jeder Moment hat seine eigene Bedeutung
Fr mich, fr dich, fr ihn.
Jeder Augenblick hat seine wichtige Handlung
Jede Zeit ist immer zu bevorzugen
Jeden Augenblick kann man dein Leben verndern
Heute, Morgen, bermorgen.
Fr einen kurzen Moment
Knnen Sie ein Knig werden
ber mich, ber dich, ber alles
In einem kleinen Augenblick
Knnen Sie verlieren
Alles, ein bischen , oder nichts.
TID
Swedish version by Emanuel Stoica
Varje stund har sin egen betydelse,
Fr mig, fr dig, fr honom.
I varje gonblick finns det ett viktig handling

Tid r alltid avgrande,
Varje stund kan alltid ndra
ditt liv, mitt liv, hans liv,
I dag, i morgon, vermorgon, fr evigt.
Fr ett kort gonblick, kan du vara en stor kung,
ver mig, ver dig, ver honom.
I ett gonblick, kan du frlora,
Allt, lite, eller ingenting...
TIJD
Dutch version by Theresia Swiebel
Elk moment heeft zijn eigen betekenis.
Voor mij, voor jou, voor hem.
Op elk moment is er een actie belangrijk,
voor mij, voor jou, voor hem.
Tijd is altijd van cruciaal belang,
Elk moment kan voor altijd je leven veranderen,
Vandaag, morgen, overmorgen, voor altijd.
Voor een kort moment, kunt u het hebben,
over mij, over jou, over hem.
In een moment, kan je het verliezen,
Alles, een weinig of niets.
TIEMPO
Spanish version by Alfredo Cernuda
Cada momento tiene su propio significado
Para m, para ti, para l
En cada momento ocurre una gran accin
Para m, para ti, para l.
Cada momento es decisivo
Para m, para ti, para l.
Cada momento puede cambiar tu vida
Hoy, maana, pasado maana, para siempre
Lo bueno, lo malo, o la nada
Por un solo instante
Te puedes convertir en uno rey
Cerca de m, de ti, cerca de todo.
En un momento
Puedes perderlo todo, poco o nada.
TEMPS
Catalan version by Albert Salvad
Cada instant t el seu significat,
Per mi, per tu, per ell.
A cada instant hi ha una acci cabdal
per mi, per tu, per ell.
Cada instant s decisiu
per mi, per tu, per ell.
En un instant pot canviar la teva vida, la meva, la seva.
Avui, dem, dem passat, sempre.
Per un instant podeu ser un rei,
amb mi, amb tu, amb ell.
En un instant ho pots perdre tot,
una mica o, tal vegada, res.
TEMPO
Portuguese version by Susana Custdio
Cada momento tem seu prprio significado,
Para mim, para vs, para ele.
Em cada instante h uma aco principal
para mim, para vs, para ele.
Cada momento decisivo
Para mim, para vs, para ele.
Cada momento pode mudar a vossa vida.
Hoje, amanh, depois de amanh, para sempre
O bom, mau, ou o todo
Por um nico instante,
Vs podeis ser um rei
Sobre mim, sobre vs, sobre todos
Num nico momento
Vs podeis perder tudo, um pouco ou nada.
TEMPO
Italian version by Florentina Ivanov
Ogni momento ha il suo significato,
Per me, per te, per lui.
In ogni momento vi una azione importante
Il tempo sempre cruciale,
Ogni momento pu sempre cambiare la tua vita, la mia, la sua,
Oggi, domani, dopodomani, sempre.
Per un breve momento, si pu essere ungrande re,
Su di me, su di te, su di esso,

In un attimo, si pu perdere,
Tutto quello poco o nulla ....
ID
Hungarian version by Margit Flop
Minden pillanatnak megvan a maga jelentsge
Az n szmomra, a te szmodra, az szmra,
Minden pillanatban trtenik valami fontos
Az id dnt jelentsg
Brmelyik pillanat megvltoztathatja a te, az n, az lett,
Ma, holnap, holnaputn, rkre
Egy rvid idre te lehetsz maga a kiraly
Flttem, fltted, fltte
Egy pillanat alatt elveszthetsz
Mindent, egy keveset, vagy semmit...
Russian version by Andrey Vlasov

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CZAS
Polish version by Krystyna Magorzata
Kada chwila ma swoje znaczenie,
Dla mnie, dla ciebie, dla niego.
W kadym momencie istnieje dua akcja
dla mnie, dla ciebie, dla niego.
Kady moment jest decydujcy
Dla mnie, dla ciebie, dla niego.
Kada chwila moe zmieni twoje ycie.

Dzi, jutro, pojutrze, na zawsze
Dobre, ze, albo wcale.
Na chwil,
Moesz by
O mnie, o tobie, o wszystko
W jednej chwili
Moesz straci niewiele lub nic.
AS
Czech version by professor Chirea-Constantin Simion
Kad okamik m svj vlastn vznam,
Pro m, pro tebe, pro nj.
Kadm okamikem kon se dleit akce,
as je vdycky rozhodn
Kad okamik me kdykoli zmnit tvj, mj, jeho ivot,
Dnes, ztra, pozt, navdy.
Na krtk okamik, me bt vemocnm krlem
Nade mnou, nad tebou, nad nm,
Hned me ztratit
Vechno, trochu nebo nic
BPEME
Macedonian version by Igor Kodjabashija
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BPEME
Serbian version by Ana Lacanski
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BPEME
Bulgarian version by Andra Costan
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ZAMAN
Turkish version by Hasan & Zeynep Cokun
Her an kendi nemi vardi
Benim iin, senin iin, benim iin
Her eylem nemnli bir var
Benim iin, senin iin, benim iin
Zaman, zaman, belirleycidir
Benim hayati, senin hayati,
onun hayati, her an deistirebiliriz
Bugun, yarin, bir gun her zaman
Bir ksacik an bir kral olabilirsin
stumde, senin stune, onun stune
Bir ksacik an kaybedebilirsin
Hereg, az, yoksa hi.

Arabic version by Saher & Liana Dana
Reviewed by Naji Naaman
Japanese version by Tomoko Taneichi
DEM
Kurdish version by Hussein Habasch
Her klkek wateyeke w heye
Ji min re, ji te re, ji w re.
Di her klkek de karek balk heye
Her tim dem bi zexme
Di her klkek de tu dikar jna xwe, ya min ya w j biguhrn
ro, siba, dusiba, her tim.
Di klkeke kin de tu dikar bib ahek gewre
Li ser min, li ser te, li ser w.
Di klkek de tu dikar hem titan, hinek, yan ne titek
Winda bik.
LAIKS
Latvian version by Judte Alpa
Katram mirklim ir sava jga un nozme
Man, Jums, Viam...
Katru brdi notiek kds nozmgs notikums
Man, Jums, Viam...
Laiks - vienmr ir noteicoais
Man, Jums, Viam...
Ik mirkli var mainties Tava dzve, ar mana un via
odien, rt, part un uz visiem laikiem.
Uz kdu laiku vari kt noteicjs
Pr mani, pr viu, pr viiem...
Vien mirkl vari pazaudt
Visu vai neko.
AS
Slovenian version by Zvonko Mokricky
Vsak trenutek imasvoj smisel,
pomen, za mene, za tebe, za njega.
Vvsakem trenutku je pomemben ukrep,
za mene, za tebe, za njega.
as je vedno kljunega pomena,
za mene, za tebe, za njega.
Vsak trenutek vedno lahko spremenite svoje ivljenje,
moje, njegovo
danes, jutri,pojutrinem, za vedno.
Za trenutek si lahko dober kralj,

nad mano, nad vami, nad njim.
V trenutku lahko izgubite,
vse kar je, in malo ali ni.
Greek version by Constantin Themelis

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Georgian version by Temo Zhuzhunashvili
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CHIRO
Aromanian version by Georgia Bajdechi
Cathi minut sh-ari noima a ljei ahoryea
Ti mini, ti tini, ti iel.
Tu cathi sticu di oar s-adar un lucru di thimelj

Chirolu easti daima apufusitor,
Cathi minut angreac ti bana
a tau, a meau, a lui.
Adz, mni, paimni, ti daima.
Ti un minut, pots s-hii un mari vslje,
Pisti mini, pisti tini, pisti iel.
Tu un sticu di oar pots s-cheri,
Tut, niheam i tsiva
KOHA
Albanian version by Baku Kmeri
do moment ka shenjkuptimin e vet,
Pr mua, pr ty, pr t.
N do ast z vend nj veprim important,
Koha sht gjithmon vendimtare,
do moment kurdoher mund ta ndryshoj jetn
tnde, timen, t tij.
Sot, nesr, pasnesr, prgjithmon.
Pr nj moment t shkurt, mund t jesh nj mbret i madh,
Prmbi mua, prmbi ty, prmbi t.
N nj ast t vetm, mund ti humbish,
T gjitha, pak, apo aspak...
ZAMAN
Azeri version by an embassy group
Hr ann z hmiyyti var,
Mnim n, snin n, onun n.
Hr an hmiyytli bir faliyyt var,
Hmi qrar verndir zaman,
Hr bir an, mnim, snin, onun
hyatn dyisdir bilr istniln zaman,
Bu gn, sabah, biri gn, bdi.
Qsa bir zaman n, bir byk padah olar,
Mnim zrimd, snin zrind, onun zrind,
tir bilrsn hr zaman,
Hr ey, az bir ey v ya hen ...
Indian version by Dev Kumar

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Korean version by Ioana Zaharia

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Urdu version by Nadyne Rashid
Har lamhe ka maqsad hota hai,us ke mafruze ke sath
Mere lie,tere lie,uske lie
Har lamhe ka apna hisab hota hai,jo bohat zaroori hai

Mere lie,tere lie,us ke lie
Waqat hamesha saht hota hai
Har lamha meri zindagi badal sakta hai,teri bhi aur us ki bhi
Ajj, kal, parsun, hamesha
Zaroori lamha wakat ka badisha ho sakta hai
Mere upar,tere uper,uske uper
!Kuch lamhe mein tum har sakte ho
!Har cheez choti hoti hai,magar be buniad aur kuch nahin

Hebrew version by Avi Herman
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Persian version by Ali Neshan

TIMP
Shona version (first spoken Bantu language),
by Robin Mandisodza & Dr. Mandisodza
Nguva dzose ine yayo kukosha,
Nokuti ini, nokuti imi, nokuti iye.
Murudzi nguva pane chinokosha chiito
Time anogara inokosha,
Nguva dzose kunogona kuchinja upenyu hwako, yangu nguva dzose, ake,
Nhasi, mangwana, kuswera mangwana, nokusingaperi.
Kwechinguva chiduku, unogona kuva mambo mukuru,
Pamusoro pangu, pamusoro pako, pamusoro payo,
Pakarepo, ungarasikirwa,
Zvose shoma kana chinhu
SAAT
Malaysian version by Georges Voisset
Setiap saat ada maknanya,
Pada aku, pada kamu, pada orang.
Dalam sesaat ada tindakan yang sangat penting
Setiap saat menentukan
Setiaap saat boleh mengubah hidup kamu
Hari ini, besok, lusa - untuk selamanya
Pada yang terbaik, yang jelek atau tidak.
Dalam sekejap mata
Boleh kamu menjadi maharaja
Yang menguasai aku, kamu sendiri semuanya,
Dalam sekejap mata
Dapat dihilangkan semuanya, sedikit - tidak sama sekali.
Thi gian
Vietnamese version by Nguyen Khanh Huyen (Adriana) and Anna Cake
Mi khonh khc u c ngha ring ca n
cho ti, cho bn, cho anh y.
Trong mi khonh khc u c ni cho hot ng quan trng

Thi gian s lun lun quyt nh
Mi khonh khc u c th thay i
cuc sng ca bn, ca ti, ca anh y
bt c khi nao.
Ngy hm nay, ngy mai, ngy kia v mi mi
Cho mt thi gian ngn, bn c th tr thnh mt v vua v i
trn ti, trn bn, trn anh y
Trong mt thi im bn c th b mt i
tt c, mt cht, hay khng g c...
Dimitris P. Kraniotis .
Greek poet, born in 1966 (Stomio-Larissa, Greece). Studied Medicine at the Aristotle
University of Thessaloniki. Author of 7 poetry books: "Traces" (in Greek, Greece, 1985);
"Clay Faces" (in Greek, Greece, 1992); "Fictitious Line" (in Greek, English and French,
Greece, 2005); "Dunes" (in French and Romanian, Romania, 2007); "Endogram" (in Greek,
editions Malliaris Paideia, Greece, 2010); "Edda" (in French and Romanian, Romania, 2010)
and "Illusions"(in Albanian, Romania, 2010). Editor-in-chief of the international anthology
in english "World Poetry 2011" (205 poets from 65 countries). Participated in several
International Poetry Festivals. Won international awards for his poetry which has been
translated into 25 languages (English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Italian,
German, Polish, Dutch, Serbian, Albanian, Romanian, Arabic, Chinese, Bulgarian, Turkish,
Czech, Japanese, Bengali or Bangla, Persian or Farsi, Gujarati, etc) and published in many
countries around the World. With several titles and prizes worldwide. Founder and President
of World Poets Society (W.P.S). Editor of the greek poetry magazine Poetics @ GR.
Pote et mdecin grec, n en 1966 Stomio-Larissa (Grce). Auteur de 7 recueils de
pomes, a t traduit en 25 langues, et a reu plusieurs titres et prix des pays suivants:
Grce, tats-unis dAmrique, Italie, Inde, Roumanie, Espagne, Grande Bretagne, France,
Nicaragua, Tchquie, Russie, Suisse, Macdoine, Australie, Chili et Bulgarie.
60- Dimitris P. Kraniotis . -11
/MOINS UN
Poems in Greek, with English version by Panayiota Tsorou and Dimitra Bardani.

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.
MOINS UN
J'ai tir la terre pour nous couvrir,
par espoir de nous habiller ce soir,
sans batailles et sans effusion de sang,
de ces mots que nous crochions hier comme des noyaux,
mais ne me rponds pas tout de suite,
attends ton tour la queue,
moi, j' attends des rponses de toi et de moi,
sans cesse, jusqu' hier encore,
un si s r et inattendu -1 de l' ascenseur,
sous sol vaguement et avec une colre ajoute,
(quelle logique a t loue par mon imagination ce soir?)
mais je ne veux pas que la boue ptrisse nos corps
61- Dimitris P. Kraniotis . -11
en remplissant avec moins un le demain

racines de lotus et de mythes.

,

,
.

,

,

LA FIN
Le got des fruits ne part pas de ma bouche,
mais la tristesse des mots dtruit les nuages
et presse la neige comptant les cailloux.
Mais toi, tu ne mas pas dit pourquoi tu mas tromp,
pourquoi avec la peine et linjuste tu voudrais dire,
que la fin se brle toujours avec des larmes.
Gilles Garnier
French poet and photographer, working at Fontvieille (Provence, France), with several
printed volumes of poems and photos.
62- Gilles Garnier -19
Pote et photographe franais, install Fontvieille, son village natal dans le sud de la
France (Provence). Diplm des Beaux Arts, il a travaill 12 ans en Agences de Reportages
de Presse Keystone puis SIPA Press International. Il est aussi l'auteur de nombreux
ouvrages (photos et psies), dont: Lcume des mots, USA, 2014; Murmures dImages,
2013, "Regards de l'Inde", 2012, "Namaste", 2010, "Itinerrances", 2010, "Ambre et Jasmin",
2009, tous parus aux editions Presse Universitaire NY,USA; "Rhne Jamuna", 1990,
ouvrage de photos N&B avec JL Chabassud au profit des dispensaires de Bnares et New
Delhi, "Cendres", 1988, aux ditions Caractres Paris (posies), "La lumire de Vincent",
1987, ouvrage photo collectif sur la lumire de Van Gogh en pays d'Arles, ditions
Ziemliner, Suisse, "La Terre d'Oubli", 1984, paru aux ditions Caractres, Paris (posies et
gravures).
VOYAGES
(extracts - extraits - extractos - (
Poems in French, photos by the poet.
SOUPIR DVASION
C'tait au Liban
Peut-tre
J'ai oubli
Elle tait belle
Parlait avec une voix douce et chaude
Lentement
Ses seins lourds
C'tait au Liban
Peut-tre
J'ai oubli
L' Orient faisait danser ses hanches
Sa peau avait un got de miel
Son regard un voyage
Une invitation aux suaves langueurs
C'tait au Liban
Peut-tre
J'ai oubli
Aux confins des extrmes
Tout devient possible
Fire et libre
Jouir de la vie tait pour elle
Un soupir d'vasion
C'tait au Liban
Peut-tre
J'ai oubli
Son prnom
Son parfum
La fivre de ses reins
C'tait au Liban
Je ne les ai pas oublis
Zoha
FRAGILES SOSIES
Dans toutes les villes
Il y a des fentres ouvertes sur l'azur
Traverses par un fleuve
Il y a des golands
Qui miaulent dans le ciel
Il y a des mouvements
Figs dans le temps
Qui poursuivent leur route
Longtemps, longtemps
Aprs que des volets ne se ferment
Longtemps, longtemps
Aprs que des cris ne se taisent
Lgers voyageurs
Reflets insensibles
D'anonymes vies
Fragiles sosies
D'instants anims par tant de voix billonnes
JE ME SOUVIENDRAI
Un jour tu partiras
Je ne men apercevrai pas
Les mois et les annes passeront
Un matin comme tous les matins
Je me rveillerai cette fois
Avec limpression dtre seul
Je reverrai alors les mois et les annes
Passes toublier
Et sans doute
Je me souviendrai
Ikromkhon Valikhonov
Uzbekistani poet, born on November 1976 (Urgut district, Samarkand region, Uzbekistan).
He started writing poems from childhood, his father, Ja'farxon Valikhonov, was the learned
man of the outstanding literature. He gained Sahitya Sree literary award from India
65- Ikromkhon Valikhonov -11
Intercontinental Cultural Association. His poetry collection A Jewel of my Soul was

published in Hindi-English languages in India in 2016. His poems are included in Spanish
Anthology Voces Poeticas de Nuevo Siglo.
Pote ouzbek, n en 1976 (Urgut, Samarkand, Ouzbkistan). son actif sinscrivent des
publications et diffrentes activits culturelles.
WAIL
Poem in English.
The world is a disaster for someone and a glory for others,
The world is bloody in a desert of Sham and Iraq,
While the babies died on the hand of tyrants,
You should burn in a fire, the world.
I searched for a happiness and couldn't find,
I couldn't run with the peace together.
My friends are calm in the world,
I couldn't close my eyes in my dreams.
My happiness had been the world for a moment,
My tears had been the river and blood.
When I realized my hope, o God,
My all the morning had been nights too.
Are all my dreams that death?
Is that to sink in tears, not the ocean?
The war and a calamity are trouble's hand,
Is that pulling out of my verdures still not opened?
I have words to say for tyrants,
I have the eyes that blood dropped instead of tear,
If you punish tyrants, my God,
I am the witness for the Judgement-Day.
The world is a disaster for someone and a glory for others,
The world is bloody in a desert of Sham and Iraq,
While the babies died on the hand of tyrants,
You should burn in a fire, the world.
***
I asked the ground: what exactly you are?
I want to know that, answer me.
It said: I am the Earth, which gifted
A handful of soil to a human from my heart!
I asked the ground: what kind of destination you are?
Whose property and who stepped?
It said: I am the mother which saved human in my breast,
Grew him up and took back to my soul again.
I asked the ground: why your body is trembling?
That dangerous as a storm, your eyes are tearful.
It said: the human which I kept in my palm as my child,
That some of them are managing the meanness.
66- Ikromkhon Valikhonov -13
I asked the ground: why the daybreak is at the top of your head?
Is this purple color thing remaining from the sun?
It is the blood into kid's and mother's eyes,
Because of the people who loves vandalism.
I asked the ground: so, what should I do?
Could I complain and beg God,
It said: It is my responsibility that to save you,
Let the people to keep their own faith.
I asked the ground: Could I sacrifice my life for you?
You are my mother that my body grew up in your breast.
No, just be my child but,
Keep the motherland as your mother, keep the motherland!
Jagdish Prakash
Indian poet, born on February 4, 1935 (Lahore, actual Pakistan). With several published
books, honors and awards.
Pote indien, n le 4 fvrier 1935 (Lahore, actuel Pakistan). Il a son actif des livres
publis, des distinctions et des prix.
AJEEB DAUR SE HO KAR GUZAR RAHA HOON MEI(N)

I AM SEVENTY SEVEN
Poem in Indian and English.
AJEEB DAUR SE HO KAR GUZAR RAHA HOON MEI(N)

Meri hayat ke khamosh bund kamro(n) mein
Na dhoop chhao(n) ki bazigari, na gul muhar ke alaao
Na chandni ka la(d)akpan na kehkasha(n) k pa(d)ao
Na aasman hi mera na hi zamee(n) meri
Na ghar mera, na mera raahguzar ko hi yaqee(n)
67- Jagdish Prakash -11
Mei(n) dekhta hoo(n) hawao(n) ko sar patakte huey

Dehar ki gard mein khud ko kahin bhatake huey
Hujoom se bhari sa(d)kein, bhare huey bazaar
Ghubaar-e-raah mein dum to(d)ta hai sabr-o-qarar
Dhuyei(n) ki gode mei(n) dum to(d)ti hui galiya(n)
Hei(n) khaar daar aqeedo(n) mein qaid ab insa(n)
Na sabza zaar mei(n) allha(d) hawaon ki taqreer
Na aasman pe baadal ki surmayin tasweer
Na qehqahon ke samandar, na wajd ke dariya
Na bol pyar ke, na husn ki gudaz ada
Zawal-e-mausam-e-gul sa hai ab tassawur-e-jaa(n)
Khayal-e-bhar-e-hawadas sa hai nizam-e-jaha(n)
Ke jis mei(n) kab se akela bhatak raha hoon mei(n)
Ajeeb daur se ho kar guzar raha hoon mei(n)
I AM SEVENTY SEVEN
I am Seventy Seven,
Yes, I am old as they say,
Grey hair, receding hair line and chin with folds
But what shall I do to the moons in my eyes,
the glint, the glow, the dreams, and the endless streams
of thoughts and the unfinished tasks
the drafts of poems waiting to be polished
the untold stories yet to be told
the mystery of desires rearing to unfold
my Facebook friends, my e-mail buddies, some faceless ones yet to be studied
those virtual profiles tingle the grey cells hidden behind the freckled smiles
like them am I also a virtual reality?
Kalpna Singh-Chitnis -
Indo-American poetess, writer, filmmaker and actor based in greater Los Angeles,
California (USA). Author of Bare Soul (poetry) and three collections of poems in Hindi,
she won the prestigious Bihar Rajbhasha Award (1986-87) given by the government of
Bihar, India, for her first poetry collection Chand Ka Paivand (Patch of Moon) before she
was twenty one, and was given the title of Bihar Shri(Jewel of Bihar) in 1988. She also
68- Kalpna Singh-Chitnis - -11
received theRajiv Gandhi Global Excellence Award in 2014 for her contributions to
literature and cinema.
Potesse et actrice indo-amricaine, installe Los Angeles (Californie, tats-unis
dAmrique. son actif sinscrivent des crits et des prix.
BARE SOUL
Poem in English.
Who am I?
With the sparks of the shooting stars in the skies,
and fire of erupting volcanoes in my heart?
Storms of the deserts resound in my mind,
dark rolling clouds thunder in my soul.
The speed of the winds determines my pace,
I ask for the rain, for the touch of its grace...
Am I fire or wind?
Am I clouds or rain?
Am I stars or space?
Or a bare soul without any face?
Klaudia Muntean
Romanian poetess and teacher, born on January 3, 1980 (Hunedoara, Romania). With
several published works, prizes and various cultural activities.
Potesse et enseignante roumaine, ne le 3 janvier 1980 Hunedoara (Roumanie). Elle a
son actif plusieurs livres publis, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles.
69- Klaudia Muntean -11
NOSTALGII/NOSTALGIES
Poem in Romanian and French.
NOSTALGII
nger arhaic, nger tcut,
din aripile Tale
sfrmate-n lumin,
pmntenii sculpteaz
nencetat
pori imaginare,
puni ctre cel dinti vis,
din care au ieit cndva
purtnd nsemnele desvririi.
nger tcut, nger arhaic,
din aura Ta
mprtiat-n fiece inim,
pmntenii i es
nentrerupt
veminte alese,
armuri adnc impregnate cu
memoria persistent a matricei iniiale,
fr a gndi vreodat
c Tu nsui eti adesea
copleit
de nostalgia originilor
NOSTALGIES
Ange archaque, Ange silencieux,
de Tes ailes crases en lumire,
les mortels sculptent sans cesse des portes imaginaires,
des ponts vers le premier rve, do ils sont issus jadis
en portant les marques de la perfection.
Ange silencieux, Ange archaque,
de ton aura parseme dans chaque cur,
les humains tissent sans cesse des vtements rares,
des armures profondment imprgnes par
la mmoire persistante de la matrice initiale,
sans jamais songer
que Toi mme Tu es souvent
accabl par la nostalgie des origines
Marilyne Bertoncini
French poetess, translator and redactor in chief, born on September 12, 1952 (Lille, France),
living in Nice. With a thesis, two books of poetry, several translations and numerous
collaboration works.
Potesse, traductrice et rdactrice en chef franaise, ne le 12 septembre 1952 (Lille,
France), vivant Nice. son actif: une thse de doctorat sur l'oeuvre de Jean Giono: La
Ruse d'Isis, de la Femme dans l'oeuvre de Jean Giono, deux recueils de posie
personnelle, plusieurs traductions, des livres d'artistes et des collaborations, ainsi que des
collaborations artistiques visuelles ou sonores, des publications dans les revues ou
ouvrages collectifs, et nombreux essais et articles dans diverses revues universitaires et
littraires.
LANNEAU DE CHILLIDA
(foreword and extract - prface et extrait - prefacio y extracto - (
Foreword and extract in French.
LANNEAU DE CHILLIDA
ou la prescience de la parole potique
Prface de Denis Emorine
Prix littraire Naji Naaman (prix dhonneur pour uvres compltes, 2015)
Demble, la posie de Marilyne Bertoncini se situe sous le signe du

sculpteur Eduardo Chillida. Au dbut, apparat lanneau fondateur: anneau trinitaire
o sentrelacent le rel, la mmoire et la peine de lhumanit. Anneau- kalidoscope
fait de mystre. Anneau lgendaire galement puisque la mythologie irrigue ce
recueil. Plusieurs notations en soulignent la prgnance ainsi, dans Gense
Il y eut un avant
il y eut un aprs
Cette prcision la simplicit exemplaire est particulirement importante.
partir de l, le lecteur sinscrit dans un cheminement dialectique: Gense
Marilyne Bertoncini donne ce mot son sens biblique. En lui rendant hommage,
elle nignore pas que la parole nat dun silence fcond. Il faut vaincre celui-ci pour
avoir le droit dembrasser au sens dtreindre- le monde. Est-il risqu de parler de
cosmogonie lorsque la nuit svanouit/dans lclat du pome?
71- Marilyne Bertoncini -11
Argos, Mnades, Danades, Thbade, Orphe, Ariane la potesse vit

dans un monde eschatologique familier quelle parcourt dans un jardin frmissant
de vie et de symboles. Comme elle est belle la courbe du monde rvle par une
mort parfois goguenarde! Ce monde o rgne la personnification: Les yeux du
fleuve; des rves se refltent; la maison aux yeux clos; la paupire de la
nuit; les arbres qui sveillent te demandent laumne ne nous laisse pas
indiffrents.
Le voyage initiatique de Lanneau de Chillida droule ses charmes au sens
fort. Marilyne Bertoncini en est la prtresse et mme la pythie:
Jarpente vos songes []
Je glisse sur vos songes []
Je cueille vos songes []
affirme-t-elle, entre ltang et le marais avant de rvler une vole de
mots quelle sait fertiles.
Je bois le froid dans la tasse du ciel
o fume enfin lazur
Ce recueil est une clbration, un hymne la nature tout entire dans
laquelle prendrait place un tre rconcili avec le monde: faut-il crire la cration?
Il nest pas tonnant que la potesse rende hommage Orphe dans le Labyrinthe
des nuits. La voix est souveraine dans Lanneau de Chillida. Voix au sens musical
du terme puisquelle permet de faire apparatre des souffles doutre-monde.
Dans cette posie passe la nostalgie dun den toujours hors de porte de
ltre humain avec des vers inspirs comme celui-ci:
la lumire fait la roue et palpe le silence
Avec Marilyne Bertoncini, le lecteur ne reste pas en arrire. Il est pris dans
le mouvement perptuel de lanneau dternit dvid par sa posie, charri par
sa pense au carrefour des mythes (qui) sen coulent.
ternit, mythe, pense: cette trilogie constitue lune des grilles de lecture
possibles dune uvre polysmique qui enchante le lecteur au sens tymologique.
La mmoire-mosaque, clbre par Marilyne Bertoncini est lun des
raccourcis flamboyants de sa posie. Il en est dautres dcouvrir tout au long de
ces pages o la mort se profile tout en chantant sur le mode mineur, dirait Verlaine,
puisquelle ente ton il la lumire. De toute ternit, la mort est ainsi (re)lie
la vie, en un paradoxe qui na rien de gratuit.
Que reste-t-il une fois, le livre referm? Un got de lumire sous le poing
du soleil l o les dieux parlent dans [] lodeur des absinthes, la mer cuirasse
dargent, le ciel bleu cru, les ruines couvertes de fleurs et la lumire gros
bouillons dans les amas de pierre (Albert Camus).
LAnneau de Chillida clbre les noces paennes de lhomme avec le monde
mme lorsque la mort, discrtement voque par la potesse, se glisse en tapinois
pour mieux nous suggrer un semblant dternit. Parfois, en nous aidant mieux
voir et comprendre le cur de lunivers, la posie est synonyme de prescience.
Nul nest besoin de thologie.
72- Marilyne Bertoncini -19
EXTRAIT
Patience: attends l'claboussure stellaire, l'clatement de nova, au creux du noir
des yeux rouverts sur l'espace intrieur.
Ensuite, imagine un anneau, un trs grand anneau de fer ou d'acier - trs grand -
pas trop! - qui tourne en miroir de lui-mme et s'enroule, et que tu parcours, les
yeux clos, en marchant ttons.
Tu continues d'avancer le long du ruban qui tourne sur lui-mme, et hop, le mtal
glac de la vie retourne bruissant comme une vague, tu continues...
Te voici pris dans le mouvement perptuel de lanneau dternit qui se trouve,
dans mon muse imaginaire, sous le nom de Chillida.
Mohamed El-Jay
Moroccan short stories writer, former teacher of French language, living in Taounate
(Morocco). With writings and various cultural activities.
Nouvelliste marocain, ancien professeur de franais la retraite, vivant Taounate
(Maroc). son actif sinscrivent des crits et des activits culturelles.
LINSPECTEUR BLEU
Text in French.
Non! Il nest pas de la police, linspecteur Bouzid. Oh que nenni! Cest un fonctionnaire de lducation
nationale. Un inspecteur bleu. Plus bleu quune bouteille de gaz. Il y a une blague de chez nous qui
disait:
- Pourquoi la mer est bleue?
La bonne rponse est:
- Parce quil ne sait pas nager.
Par un lger glissement smantique ladjectif bleu qui dsigne une couleur, peut tre employe, avec
ironie dans certains contextes pour dsigner une personne nulle et inculte.
On dit de quelquun il est bleu comme une bouteille de gaz parce quil avait chaud et soif cause
de la chaleur quil faisait ce jour-l Taounate, mais surtout aussi, force d'avoir fait blablabla
comme un malade durant toute la matine, lors d'une runion pdagogique des profs de franais sur
des sujets genre activits orales, narratif, argumentatif, explicatif, injonctif, savoir-faire, savoir- tre,
comptence, performance, capacit, balayage de texte et compagnie, comme qui dirait un bazar de
brocanteur, linspecteur bleu entra dans un caf du centre-ville de Taounate. Il s'assit une table du
73- Mohamed El-Jay -11
fond et, sans avoir la patience d'attendre une seconde, frappa des deux mains, comme quand on veut
applaudir, pour appeler le garon. Celui-ci, se prcipita vers lui, passa machinalement un coup de
mouchoir sur la table et attendit la commande:
- Un coca bien glac et un verre d'eau plutt une bouteilleOui, une bouteille deau, lui demanda
ce dernier.
- Sidi Ali ou Sidi Hrazem?
-Sidi Ali! Sidi Hrazem! Rpta la grande gueule de lEducation nationale courrouc, il ny a pas de
robinet ici? Moi, je prfre leau du robinet.
Un peu surpris par la raction de son interlocuteur, le garon fit mine de ne rien entendre. Et, sans
piper mot, il acquiesa dun signe de tte. Mais, dans son for intrieur il ne mnagea pas limpertinent:
- Que Dieu maudisse la religion de ta mre, espce de canaille. Si cest simplement leau du robinet
que tu veux, eh bien, tu nas qu aller boire aux toilettes pour hommes, il y a des robinets l-bas.
Le garon passa un dernier coup de serviette sur la surface lisse en verre fum de la petite table ronde
et retourna au comptoir pour passer la commande. Dans son dos, linspecteur Bouzid, ricanait toujours:
- Sidi Ali! Sidi Hrazem! Plutt Sidi Zmar quil sappelle, sidi les couilles Un jour, ils vont mettre en
bouteille lair que nous respirons pour nous le vendre. Tfou.
Le garon ne tarda pas revenir quelques minutes plus tard avec un petit plateau couleur argent sur
lequel il y avait, un coca, une bouteille deau et deux grands verres, lun rempli deau au ras-le-bol,
lautre vide ne contenant quune tranche de citron et d'o dpassait une paille blanche rayures
bleues. Il dposa le tout sur la table avec dlicatesse, et s'en alla voir les autres clients.
Linspecteur Bouzid retira la paille du verre et la mit de ct, sur la table. Il rit au fond de lui-mme
l'ide de sucer la paille comme un homme de la haute socit, classe et raffin.
Lui, Bouzid ben Bouzid, n en lan 1953, quelques annes avant lindpendance de son pays, dans un
douar perdu parmi tant dautres hameaux disperss travers le relief accident de la rgion de
Taounate. Bouzid ben Bouzid se rappela le nombre de fois o, dans sa jeunesse, il avait bu
directement et mme les rcipients comme les seaux, les gargoulettes ou mme les bouilloires, sans
prendre la peine de verser dans un carafon. Son pre aussi faisait pareil. Quand celui-ci avait grande
soif comme il lui arrivait souvent quand il rentrait la maison aprs la grosse besogne dans la chaleur
de lt, il ramassait la bouilloire trainant par terre dans un coin de la cour de la maison toit ouvert,
enfonait le bec du rcipient dans sa bouche, puis tirait dessus comme on tire sur une cigarette et leau
coulait dans sa bouche, descendait par la gorge, produisant un gargouillis sonore et faisant clignoter sa
pomme dAdam. Par quel miracle, lui, Bouzid ben Bouzid est-il devenu inspecteur de franais, lui qui
est issu dun douar dont tous les habitants sont si analphabtes au point quils narrivent pas
distinguer entre la lettre waw de lalphabet arabe et la baguette dun joueur de tambour.
- Quest-ce quil est bleu ce type! Tu trouves pas? dit, une fois, un prof des collgues la suite
dune runion pdagogique, alors quils taient dans la caftria du lyce pour une pause-caf de dix
minutes avant le deuxime mi-temps.
- Je suis sr que ce poste, il la obtenu contre de largent, sinon par un coup de piston et personnes
interposes, rpondit lautre, toujours voix basse pour ne pas se faire entendre par monsieur
linspecteur, mme si ce dernier se tenait bonne distance, entirement concentr sur la bouffe.
- Et quest-ce que tu crois, quil la obtenu par mrite? Tu nas pas vu comment il parlait? Il est aussi
bleu quune bouteille de gaz, renchrit lautre.
- Par contre, il aime la bouffe et les ripailles, remarqua un autre. Les ripailles et les verres de th,
ricana-il, en clignant dyeux, en direction de linspecteur de lducation nationale.
- Brrr. La langue de Voltaire! Cest trop fort pour sa petite tte en forme de galet. Bouzid Ben Bouzid,
inspecteur de franais! On aura tout vu! Ce nest pas par hasard si les profs avaient choisi la couleur
bleue de la butane gaz pour peindre son portrait. Ne dit-on pas que la mer est bleue parce quelle ne
sait pas nager? Ds la premire runion, les professeurs avaient remarqu que le type ne matrisait
absolument pas son latin.
Pourtant, il navait pas honte de son ignorance. Au contraire, il faisait le lion ce Bouzid ben Bouzid. Je
vous laisse imaginer un peu ce merdeux de l'ducation nationale mes frres, en train de se pavaner
comme un dindon dans la cours du lyce, compltement affair et le feu dans le cul, crant un tapage
pas possible pour ses runions soit disant pdagogiques et escort d'un directeur qui l'accompagnait
comme son ombre, comme le Sancho de Don Quichotte et qui se faisait petit, petit et complaisant mes
frres, cette espce de descendance des annes de plomb, l'me tout ce qu'il y a de plus servile et
lche, lche faire dans sa culotte, chaque fois qu' il est en prsence d'un suprieur hirarchique.
Comme linspecteur Bouzid, lui aussi est un homme trs inculte. Il s'appelait Haddou. Un type
vulgaire et obsd par la fesse, le cochon. La fesse. La fesse. Ce mot occupait tout son espace mental.
Tfou.
- Une paille! H h, ricana linspecteur. Boire du coca avec une paille, c'est prendre la vache par les
cornes! H hh. Nous sommes bien au caf de Ali Toubbal et non pas au Japon ce que je sache!
ll remplit un verre presque au ras le bord et le siffla d'une seule traite en faisant un bruit de la glotte. La
paille blanche rayures jaunes toute neuve lui plut. Il pensa un instant la fourrer dans sa poche, puis
se ravisa. Pendant que les autres fourraient des milliards dans leurs poches, lui, il voulait voler un uf.
Non! Il eut honte de lui-mme.
Ce jour-l, le caf tait presque vide, en ce dbut d'aprs-midi, part deux ou trois clients qui
sirotaient leur limonade autour d'une table ct de la baie vitre donnant sur la terrasse au carrelage
noir et blanc comme un damier. Dehors un soleil implacable tapait dur sur l'asphalte et sur la taule des
voitures en stationnement. A ct de lui, une immense glace enchsse dans un cadre fin, en fer forg
en arabesques tait fixe sur le mur pour la dcoration. Linspecteur Bouzid y jeta un regard et vit son
reflet. Visage joufflu barr dune moustache poivre et sel. Petits yeux ronds comme deux rubis,
presque teints et profondment enfoncs dans les orbites. Costume de quat sous, cravate club et
ventre bedonnant.
Satisfait de lui-mme, Bouzid ben Bouzid sourit son double dans la glace. Mais, quelle ne fut sa
surprise lorsquil remarqua que ce dernier ne lui rendit pas son sourire. Pour s'assurer davantage, il fit
semblant d'ajuster le nud de sa cravate. Son double resta de marbre et
n'imita point son geste. Fig comme une statue, celui-ci fixait linspecteur de ses yeux ronds comme
deux rubis qui ne ressemblaient en rien aux siens et semblait en colre. Paralys par la peur, Bouzid
ben Bouzid voulut crier, mais son cri resta bloqu au fond de sa gorge. Il avait perdu sa voix,
linspecteur bleu. Soudain, une chose encore plus troublante se produisit et qui branla le cur de
linspecteur. Dans la glace, son double remua les lvres et lui dit sur un ton menaant:
- Vas -y encore! Regarde-moi bien! Je porte des cornes sur la tte ou merde?
Saisi d'pouvante, linspecteur Bouzid voulut s'enfuir, mais il sentit ses jambes engourdies et
incapables du moindre mouvement, comme dans un cauchemar. Son malaise s'accentua quand l'autre
ajouta:
- Tu me prends pour qui espce d'ordure? Pour un singe dans une cage?
De nouveau, il essaya de dire un mot pour demander des excuses, mais en vain. Il perdit le contrle de
son corps. Brusquement, ses freins lchrent pour laisser passage une succession de pets allant
crescendo. La premire courte et peine audible, la seconde un peu plus bruyante, et la troisime plus
longue et plus accentue. Il eut honte de ses manations et son visage devint cramoisi comme une
tomate.
Remarquant sa gne et sa vulnrabilit, l'autre lui demanda en ricanant:
- Dis-moi pouilleux, tu fais quoi dans la vie?
Cette fois-ci, malgr la frousse, sa langue se dlia. Il rpondit timidement, presque entre ses dents :
- Inspecteur de franais.
- Ah! Je vois, je vois! Tbarkellah, Tbarkellah . Ravi, ajouta-il avec ironie. Donc, pour toi, la langue
franaise a doit tre du gteau, n'est-ce pas? Tu as lu beaucoup de livres de pdagogie?
- Deux ou trois ou quatre. Depuis ma naissance, rpondit linspecteur bleu Bouzid ben Bouzid. J'ai lu
aussi Zougoulougoubanba.
- Hmaaaar. Aaaaaane! Sous dautres cieux, tes homologues publient des livres. Mais, dis-moi un peu,
comment, dans lexercice de ta fonction, comment tu fais pour ten sortir?
En guise de rponse, il ne trouva autre chose de mieux que de sortir ses habituels clichs, comme s'il
les avait avals jeun, comme des mdicaments et se mit rciter:
- Arrt bilan, les objectifs, narratif, qualificatif, hyperbole, litote, savoir-faire, savoir- tre, valuation
formative, sommative, argumentatif, narratif, ni rond ni carr ni pointu zougoulougoubanaba, mais ou
et donc, or, ni, car.
- Halte! Repooooos! Ta gueule espce de fumier, dit le double derrire la glace tout fulminant de rage,
tu es malades ou quoi? Avoue que tu es une grande gueule! Les tonneaux vides qui font beaucoup de
bruit. Pourtant tu as beaucoup de temps libre. On peut mme dire que tu ne fais pas partie de la
population active. Qu'est-ce que tu en fais, de ce temps?
- Rien, dit linspecteur Bouzid, je le tue dans les cafs et le soir devant la tlvision. Dans le meilleur
des cas j'essaie de remplir une grille de mots croiss ou de lire un journal en arabe que j'abandonne vite.
La lecture me donne des maux de tte.
Transform par la colre, le visage de la silhouette dans la glace se mtamorphosa et prit des formes
hallucinantes. Ses oreilles s'allongrent et des cornes lui poussrent sur la tte. Il cracha en direction de
linspecteur:
- Tfou, j'ai honte d'tre ton double. Je prfre une tronche avec des cornes plutt qu'une tte qui te
ressemble. Tfooou. Une pluie de tfous et de crachats sur ton individu. De quoi te mouiller tous tes
vtements, espce de canaille.
Touch dans sa dignit, linspecteur rassembla son courage deux mains et dcida d'affronter son vis-
-vis:
- coute- moi bien Assi Zmar. Nous sommes dans un caf et pas dans un marcage, ni dans un vieux
chteau abandonn o pullulent les cratures de ton espce. Un peu de respect voyons!
- Hi hiiiiiiiih, s'esclaffa le faux double derrire la glace. Toi, tu me donnes des leons de bonne
conduite, espce de pouilleux! La ferme canaille ou je te souffle vers le bout du monde. Je vais
t'effacer du globe terrestre, espce d'ordure.
- L'ordure c'est bien toi, rpliqua Bouzid, tout fier d'avoir retrouv son courage et essayant de faire le
lion comme il avait l'habitude de faire chaque fois qu'il se trouvait dans la cours du lyce escort de
Hadou, le directeur moins que rien. Si tu es vraiment courageux, ajouta-il, eh ben, sors de ton miroir
et approche-toi, par ici. Je te montrerai ta face dans cette glace, silhouette de malheur!
Voyant que son double voulait traverser la glace pour venir vers lui, linspecteur Bouzid ben Bouzid se
leva et, vite, il se sauva toutes jambes. Il n'avait mme pas pay sa consommation.
Nayanika Dey
Indian poetess, born on October 29, 1993 (Durgapur, West Bengal, India). With several
writings and various cultural activities.
Potesse indienne, ne le 29 octobre 1993 Durgapur (Bengal ouest, Inde). son actif
sinscrivent des crits et diffrentes activits culturelles.
76- Nayanika Dey -13
THOSE LOVE LETTERS

Text in English.
I felt like saying

What I wanted to,
So I lettered my love
And sent them all to you,
No matter if,
They ever be delivered
But I felt as if,
There was someone,
I was talking to.
Now, that my role
Has been played,
My departure
Shouldn't be delayed.
It's time for me to go,
Let me make my way,
Before the night
Overcomes the day,
"Goodbye", I shall say.
Nina Malinovski
Danish poetess, authoress and film-scriptwriter, born in 1951 (Denmark). With a number of
volumes of poetry published: Free Time 1981, Beneath the heel of dance 1983, Tales
of speed 1985, It is so simple 1990, Changes 1994, On behalf of the water 1997,
Songs of silence 2006, Selected poems 2011, she had been translated into Swedish,
Spanish, English, Norwegian, Dutch, Spanish, Polish, Finnish, Turkish and Arabic.
Potesse et auteure danoise, ne en 1951 au Danemark. Elle a son actif des recueils
publis, et a t traduite vers plusieurs langues.
77- Nina Malinovski -11
MSKE ENDER ALTING GODT

PERHAPS EVERYTHING WILL END WELL
Text in Danish, with English version by Carl King.
MSKE ENDER ALTING GODT

Mske vil de to tog
der med hj hastighed
nu nrmer sig hinanden
p det samme spor
alligevel ikke mdes
Den hjemlse
vil mske alligevel
langt om lnge
finde diamantsmykket
i affaldscontaineren
Fr eller siden
skal jgeren mske
trods alt blive ramt
og mens han synker i kn
vil hjorten springe
sit smukkeste spring
Og mske vil de to
der i s mange r
hemmeligt har fulgt
hinandens bevgelser
alligevel mdes til sidst
Mske dr den gode
slet ikke i slutningen
Ferskenstenen
smidt p stranden
vil mske spire en dag
og blive et tr
Og det store grisehoved
i slagterens vindue
med det fornrmede
himmelvendte blik
vil mske alligevel forenes
med sin krop
(som nu i stor fart er p vej til kdhallerne i byens udkant)
Mske er ingenting
sket endnu
78- Nina Malinovski -11
PERHAPS EVERYTHING WILL END WELL

Perhaps the two trains
travelling towards each other
at high speed
on the same track
will not meet after all
The homeless person
will perhaps after all
eventually
find some diamond jewellery
in the refuse container
Perhaps the child
still crying will awake
and someone will comfort it
and explain
that the world will last forever
and is a dream
Sooner or later
perhaps the hunter
will be hit after all
and as he
sinks to his knees
the deer will leap
its most graceful leap
And perhaps the two people
who for so many years
have secretly followed
each others movements
will meet in the end after all
Perhaps the good guy will not die
in the end at all
The peach stone
thrown onto the beach
will perhaps one day sprout
and become a tree
And the big pigs head
in the butchers window
with the offended
upturned gaze
will perhaps after all be united
with its carcass
(now on its way at high speed to the meat market at the edge of town)
Perhaps nothing
has happened yet -
Oana Calusa
Romanian poetess, reporter, freelancer and consultant, working in Glasgow (Scotland, U.K.)
since 2011. With published works and various cultural activities.
Potesse, journaliste et consultante roumain, travaillant Glasgow (Royaume Uni) depuis
2011. son actif sinscrivent des crits et diffrentes activits culturelles.
METAMORPHOSIS
Poem in English.
When the eyes don't speak
And the heart is silent.
You held me in your arms
And the roses blossomed
Inside my soul.
The rain of your tears
Watered them.
It overgrown my body
And it sting my heart.
Your cry kills me.
Save me, my love!
Sergiu Gabriel Berindea

Young Romanian writer, born on November 12, 1997 (Petrosani, Romania). With writings
and full time activities!
80- Sergiu Gabriel Berindea -11
Jeune crivain roumain, n le 12 novembre 1997 Petrosani (Roumanie) son actif

sinscrivent des crits et des activits plein temps!
DESPRE SEXUL FEMEII/ABOUT FEMALE SEX

Pext in Romanian and English.
DESPRE SEXUL FEMEII

Un cmp de lupt n rzboiul din Bosnia
Cronica spectacolului de teatru
Spectacolul de teatru despre sexul femeii un cmp de lupt n rzboiul din Bosnia
prezentat spectatorilor n data de 29.03.2014 n sala Teatrului Dramatic Ion D.Srbu Petroani a
expus valoarea incontestabil a artei n viaa omului, talentul actrielor Irina Bodea-Radu n rolul
Dorrei i a tinerei actrie Bianca Holobu, care datorit emoiei monoloagelor interpretate au reuit s
ptrund n sufletul celor prezeni, reuind s emoioneze publicul. Scenografia, dar i regia dur au
conferit o aur dramatic, sentimente profunde de durere fizic i moral, trezind interesul publicului
pentru cunoaterea istoriei, durerii i efectelor agresive aprute n urma unui rzboi. Textul scris de
Matei Viniec a reuit s ilustreze n viziunea spectatorului elemente ale vieii comune perioadei de
rzboi din Bosnia cu perioada contemporan, fiind o creaie care prezint antiteza vieii sociale din
acele timpuri cu viaa cotidian romneasc, lipsurile prezente sexului femeiesc i brbtesc
deopotriv, nencrederea, punctul culminant fiind reprezentat de schimbarea radical produs de
gropile comune din Bosnia. Contemplnd la situaia dramatic n care se afl Dorra, ultimul apel
fiindu-i adresat comandantului unitii din Boston, unde activa ca psiholog, liceniat a Universitii
Harvard, specialist n nevroza obsesional, doctor Honoris Causa, Kate McNoil cerndu-i ca dup
cele paisprezece luni petrecute n jurul dezgroprii mormintelor, s se ntoarc la Boston.
Ideile fundamentale ale spectacolului le reprezint chinurile femeii supuse unui viol multiplu,
n timpul rzboiului din Bosnia, situaia unui personaj obiectiv, delimitat de zona de rzboi, care sub
presiunea factorilor din jurul ei: participarea la dezgroparea unor cadavre, interveniile n ajutorul celor
care sunt nfrni de situaie i perioada de rzboi, traverseaz zone psihologice aflate la grania dintre
ur i dragoste, ncredere i suspiciune, i un dor profund pentru cele dou fete ale ei aflate la Boston,
primnd ca interes major reprezentarea Statelor Unite ale Americii n rzboiul din Bosnia.
Spectacolul este o fresc a dramei, regizorul Muriel Manea intervine asupra textului cu
accenturi ale diagolului, personajelor i al aciunilor. Dialogul dintre cele dou personaje poate fi
interpretat ca unul controversat, indescifrabil. Katte i Dorra comunic de multe ori prin intermediul
aciunii fizice a corpului. Regia artistic contempl la valorificarea trupului femeii nsrcinate,
atingerile i limbajul non-verbal al celor dou personaje ntruchipnd fiecare scen n care Dorra
strbate stri morale precum: nervozitatea, ura, iubirea, grija, gndul la sinucidere. Rolul lui Kate,
interpretat de Bianca Holobu, impune spectatorului o viziune asupra moralului tensionat, a exploatrii
fizice n scopul dobndirii unor informaii necesare propriului popor.
Valoarea textului Viniecian, n concordana stilului propriu abordat n operele dramatice,
prinde contur prin intervenia regizorului care impune valene scenice i amplificri ale situaiilor
prezente, mult mai accentuate, sporind astfel emoia spectatorului, dar i descoperirea talentelor
actoriceti ale distribuiei scenariului. Printr-o iluzie, textul pare a fi unul uor de digerat, fluent,
prezent perioadei contemporane, reuind s se adreseze publicului eterogen de orice gen.
Ideile regizorale expuse n scen evideniaz drama sexului femeiesc n perioada rzboiului,
trecerea brusc de la ncredere la ur, de la melancolie la stare de regret. Important,din punctul de
vedere al regizorului, reperezint afeciunile psihice de care sufer Dorra, factorii externi precum
sarcina, suspiciunea de torturare a lui Kate asupra Dorrei, sunt ideile principale care ridic nivelul
dramei reprezentaiei artistice. Limbajul rezigoral aflat n concordan cu textul spectacolului despre
sexul femeii un cmp de lup n rzboiul din Bosnia se adreseaz publicului printr-o srcie a
elementelor scenice metaforice, fiind uor de descifrat i accesibil, dei drama textului se afl ascuns
sub o perdea de interpretri a gesturilor, a limbajului non-verbal expus de actrie, miestria i
delicateea regiei sporind la nivelul fiecrui spectator sentimente proprii, bazate pe experiena cultivat
n timpul vieii sau ilustrarea perioadei de groaz a femeilor de la sfritul secolului al XX-lea.
Bogia spectacolului este sporit de elementele introduse n scen, precum tonul, ritmul,
scenografia, luminile, costumele i muzica care au rolul de dramatizare a situaiei n care se afl
actorul i de o transpunere ct mai apropiat de realitate pentru spectator. Tonul personajelor se
accentueaz pe msur ce intensitatea povetii se mrete, iar disperarea situaiei care ilustreaz
personajele atinge cota maxim, de cele mai multe ori, Dorra crend legtura personajului cu tonul
ridicat, disperat, punctat. Conceptul scenografic expus de Labancz Eliza nu pare a ntruchipa nici
salonul unui spital sau a unei case de odihn, nici perioada zbuciumat a rzboiului, cu forme
plastice neregulate. Culorile restrnse aflate n jurul decorului: alb, maro n contrast cu o tent de gri
aprins redau starea necontenit de mcinri interioare i a tririlor cumplite cu care se confrunt omul.
Luminoziatea regrezint elementul n care graviteaz aciunea povetii, impunndu-se de foarte multe
ori sub forme accentuate sau restrnse. Elementul descriptiv al personajelor l guverneaz costumaia
personajelor aflate, iniial, la poluri opuse, care se descoper spre finalul reprezentaiei, datorit
ajutorului reciproc pe care i-l ofer personajele Kate i Dorra.
Distribuia spectacolului este adecvat, reflectnd la condiiile impuse de scenariu: vrsta
personajelor, asemnare fizic dobndit de profesiile desfurate. nelegerea textului de ctre actori
este realizat n viziune proprie, aflat n strns legtur cu viziunea autorului, fiecare actri folosind
mijloace personale ca voce, Bianca Holobu, n rolul lui Katte construind personajul prin intermediul
jocului actoricesc real, interpretnd personajul fr exagerri a gesturilor sau a ntelegerii personajului
psiholog, absolvent al Universitii Harvard. Capacitatea afectiv de care dispune actria Irina
Bodea-Radu constituie esena spectacolului artistic, talentul evidenindu-se prin emoia produs,
inuta statului social al personajului aflat la grania dintre realitate i ficiune nu i pune opreliti n
demersul de a interpreta ntr-un mod personal i excepional rolul Dorrei.
Spectacolul despre sexul femeii un cmp de lupt n rzboiul din Bosnia se adreseaz
unui public eterogen. Cunosctorilor de istorie, dar i a celor curioi. Prezint ntmplrile i efectele
produse asupra femeii, provocnd sentimente de regret, de melancolie, de durere, de tristee, dar i de
nduioare n rndul publicului de ambele sexe. Spectacolul a fost reprezentat pe scena Teatrului
Dramatic Ion D.Srbu Petroani, jucat de trei ori n stagiunea de teatru 2013-2014, fiind o emblem
peste hotarele rii, jucndu-se la Viena i Roma.
ABOUT FEMALE SEX

A battleground in the war in Bosnia
Chronicle theater performance
Theater show "about female sex - a battleground in the war in Bosnia" introduced viewers
on 03/29/2014 at Drama Theatre "Ion D.Sirbu" Petrosani, Romania has exposed the undeniable value
of art in human life, talent actresses Irina Bodea -Radu in the role Dorra and the young actress Bianca
Holobut that emotion because of monologues interpreted managed to penetrate the soul of the
audience, managing to thrill the audience. Scenography, but also directed "tough" have conferred an
aura dramatic, profound feelings of physical pain and moral awakening public interest in knowing the
history, pain and effects arising from aggressive war. The text of Matei Visniec managed to illustrate
the vision of the spectator elements of common life period of the war in Bosnia to the contemporary
period, being a creation that shows the antithesis of social life in those times, gaps present sex female
and male alike, distrust the highlight being the radical change caused by "mass graves in Bosnia".
Contemplating the dramatic situation in which Dorra, last call being and the master unit in Boston,
where active as a psychologist, a graduate of Harvard University expert on obsessional neurosis,
Doctor Honoris Causa, Kate McNoil requesting that after the fourteen months excavating spent around
graves, to return to Boston.
The fundamental ideas of the show they represent throes woman subjected to rape
multiple during the war in Bosnia, the situation of a character purpose, confined to the war, which
under the pressure of factors surrounding her participation in unearthing corpses interventions to help
those who are defeated the situation and during the war, crossing areas psychological at the interface
between hate and love, trust and suspicion, and a deep longing for the two sides to her at Boston,
excelling as interest representing the United States in the war in Bosnia .
The show is a fresco drama, director Muriel Manea comes with emphasis on the text of
dialogue, characters and actions. The dialogue between the two characters can be interpreted as
controversial, indecipherable. Katte and Dorra often communicate through physical action of the body.
Directed by contemplates the exploitation pregnant woman's body, touching and non-verbal language
of the two characters embodying Dorra pervades every scene in which moral states such as anger,
hatred, love, care, thought of suicide. The role of Kate, played by Bianca Holobu requires the viewer a
vision morale tense, physical exploitation in order to acquire information necessary for its own people.
Visniecs text value in its own style consistency addressed in dramatic and take shape
through the intervention of imposing meanings stage director and amplifications of the present
situation, much higher, thus increasing spectator excitement, discovery and distribution of theatrical
talent script. Through an illusion, the text seems to be easy to digest, fluent, present the contemporary
period, managing to reach the public heterogeneity of any kind.
The ideas exposed in stage directing drama highlights female sex during the war, the
sudden hatred of confidence from the state of melancholy regret. Importantly, from the perspective of
the director it represent their mental disorders Dorra, external factors such as pregnancy, suspected
torture of Kate on Dorra, are the main ideas that raise the artistic representation drama. The language
directoral was in line with the text of the play "about female sex - a field magnifying glass in the war
in Bosnia" is open to the public through a poverty of items scenic metaphorical, being easily traceable
and accessible though the drama text is hidden under a veil the interpretation of gestures, non-verbal
language exposed actresses, craftsmanship and delicacy in each spectator, feelings based on
experience cultivated during life or illustrate the horror of women period from late twentieth century.
Wealth performance is enhanced by elements introduced in the scene, such as tone,
rhythm, stage design, lighting, costumes and music that act dramatization of the situation in which the
actor and transposition as close to reality for spectators. The tone is accentuated characters as the story
increases the intensity and desperation situation illustrating characters maximum amount is, most
often, making the link Dorra high character tone desperately pointed. Concept scenographically
exposed Labancz Eliza does not seem to embody any room of a hospital or a "rest houses" nor
tumultuous period of the war, irregular shapes plastic. The colors are restricted around decoration:
white, brown in contrast with a tinge of gray render lit continual state of inner milling and terrible
experiences faced man. Brightness is an element in the story revolving action, imposing very often
accented forms or restricted. Descriptive characters element govern outfit characters are initially at
opposite poles, which is revealed towards the end of the performance, thanks to mutual aid and that it
offers characters Kate and Dorra.
The cast of the performance is adequate, reflecting on the conditions of the scenario: the
characters age, physical resemblance acquired professions carried out. Comprehension by the actors is
carried out its own vision, which is closely related to the author, each actress using personal means as
voice, Bianca Holobut in the role of Katte building character through play acting real, interpreting the
character with exaggerated gestures or understanding the character - a psychologist, a graduate of
Harvard University. Ability affective available to actress Irina Bodea-Radu is the essence of the show
artistic highlights talent into the emotion produced attire social state of the character on the border
between reality and fiction do not put hindrance in the effort to interpret in a personal and Dorra
exceptional role.
The show "about female sex - a battleground in the war in Bosnia" is address to a
heterogeneous public. Connoisseurs of history, but also for the curious. Presents the events and effects
on women, causing feelings of regret, melancholy, pain, sadness, but also of compassion among the
public of both sexes. The show was represented Dramatic Theatre "Ion D. Sirbu" Petrosani played
three times in the season of 2013-2014 theater, being an emblem abroad, playing in Vienna and Rome.
Stanka Boneva
Bulgarian poetess, philologist and philosopher by training, born on July, 9 (Stara Zagora,
Bulgaria), living and working in Varna (Bulgaria). She wrote her first poems at the age of
43. With several published works and various prizes and cultural activities, she was
translated into several languages.
Potesse, philologue bulgare, ne le 9 juillet Stara Zagora (Bulgarie), vivant et travaillant
Varna (Bulgarie). Avec des livres publis, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles, elle
a t traduite en plusieurs langues.
, /THEY, THOSE MISTS

Poem in Bulgarian, with translation into Englih by Apostol D. Apostolov.
,

,

.

,

.

,

.
- -
, ,
,

84- Stanka Boneva -11

.

( )
,

.
THEY, THOSE MISTS

The mists are rains
unstopped,
they
do not rush to retire into the earth.
Could they be
the protective screen
that harbors my resting senses
from the motley noises and sharp lights
of the intrusive townscape.
Or perhaps they are
the upper lands,
the heaven,
in the fairytale
on the pavement.
As soon as I step onto a cloud
a depressed upland
that came to meld into
humans, houses, ants,
I embrace its quiet voidness
and I can feel how
a second cloud emerges inside of me.
It isn't cold it radiates solitude
(I do not want it nestled in my blood)
I yank it from myself,
however it
still heaps
rainy words
upon my face.
Syed Liaqath Peeran
Indian poet, graduated during 1969 from St. Josephs College (Bangalore, India), and
completed Law and Social Service Administration studies. His great grandfather was a
renowned Arabic, Persian & Urdu scholar & poet and was bestowed with a title of 'Siraj-ul
Ulma' (Sun Among Scholars). His grand father received the title of 'Moin-ul-vizarath (Pillar
of Ministry) from late Maharaja of Mysore for his services to the State. His father was an
Engineer and also Sajjada-Nishin of Darga of Saint Hz-Qader awaliya Srirangapatna. After
a short stint of service in Industrial field, he entered the legal profession in 1976. Took
voluntary retirement in July 2009. Deeply interested in Sufism, in study of human growth &
development, Urdu & English Poetry. With several published books, awards and cultural
activities.
Pote indien. son actif sinscrivent des uvres publies, des prix et diffrentes activits
culturelles.
EVERGREEN PASTURES
(extracts - extraits - extractos - (
Poem and haiku in English.
ON REACHING PEACE
We will speak about primordial times.
Of the man living in caves, forests, plains
Facing natures wrath, its plays with light and shade.
Its idiosyncrasies, it fickleness, its snares.
About darkness and fears surrounding it.
About eclipse about stars and their influences.
Of being possessed by evil spirits.
Of myth, mythologies, fictions of imaginations.
Of strong devouring the weak, of subjugation.
Of exploitation, of lies, blunders, shams.
Humbugs, loots, plunders, rapines, killings.
Of all those men seeking peace.
For release from pain, sorrows, desires.
From lust, anger, jealousy, foolishness.
We will speak of enlightenment
Of freedom from evil, of goodness,
86- Syed Liaqath Peeran -13
Of virtue, of straight paths.

Of Truth, Ahimsa, release from bonds.
From attachments, of Moksha
Of peace, serenity and tranquility
HAIKU
Brotherhood of world
Crushed, burnt in America
In the name of Islam
The towering hell

The black turban of terror
Strikes at the world peace.
The jewel of peace

Now shattered to smithereens
Alas, black terror!
The burring tower

Brought down by men of terror
Of Might, now humbled.
The pigeon of peace

Its wings burnt by terrorist
Humanity weeps.
Early morning rose

Got crushed under the debris
Banish black terror
A Crow sings its songs

But none listens to it
Unsweet melodies.
Dilly dallying
Wavering mind sans calmness
Tempests, storms in sea.
High voltage current
Anger burns all that is good
Show mercy on self.
Seasons change clockwise.
Suns and Moon play hide and seek
Fashions set the tunes.
87- Syed Liaqath Peeran -11
Flowers emit scent.

Amorous thoughts grips the mind
Sparkling charm in youth.
Sharpen tongue to fight

Pick personal axe to grind
Cut friends to pieces.
Man in high places

White snow on high altitudes
Melt in hot seasons
Demands of dowry
Baby weeps, mother is dead
Milk dried forever.
Clasp crowning glory

White the sun is shining high
Churn and enjoy cream.
Love cant be bargained.

It is a priceless treasure
Weigh not it in pains.
Gifts are never spurned.

What is blessed thro ones good heart.
It is to charm the mind.
Tang Yi
Chinese poet and writer, born in 1964 (Renshou County, Sichuan Province, China). Left his
hometown upon graduation from high school, and lived a simple life as a ghost-writer. Later
on, he entered a college, and engaged in media job. He now lives in Suining City, and works
88- Tang Yi -11
in the Suining Daily Newspaper Group and is the chief editor of The Chinese Poetry Journal.
He takes up writing essays, poetry, and novels as his avocation and takes part in Chinese
calligraphy and seal cutting. As a member of Chinese Writer Association, he has ever won
several prizes in literature, whose works include a collection of essays, The City of Sublime,
novels such as A Lotus Pond, poetry collections include 19 Long Poems, etc.
Pote chinois, n en 1964 Renshou (Sichuan, Chine). Il a son actif des livres publis, des
prix et des activits culturelles.
/MT. PENG IS STILL GREEN

Poems in Chinese, with English version by Zhang Zhizhong.
89- Tang Yi -11
90- Tang Yi -11
MT. PENG IS STILL GREEN

(group of poems)
Hills and Rills, Beauty and Wine

A beauty in a real sense
Is both in the palace and among the people. But with her everything is ready
Land, grain and wine
Can nurture a few law-abiding warriors
Herein lie hills and rills, which are strongly fortified
The days piled up with rice, wheat, maize and red peppers
The backyard which is still not old
A cup of thin wine, has idled a winter
The Oranges Are Red

I have an orchard which is not big
And it is overflowing with the fragrance of oranges
Just this winter one after another little lamp on dark-green branches
In the fleeting years where we depend on each other for survival,
it is more and more perfect
The oranges are red!
Like the girls who are approaching the marriageable age
91- Tang Yi -11
It is inevitable that they harbor the intention to be married

And they are not to be detained
Entwining the trees. And I am more like a father
Sketch of a Garden
An artificial mountain gives an impression of authenticity
At least it has been a part of the mountain
A pavilion stands aloof on the height, hills and rills half hidden
Half a mu of oblong pond with withered lotus
A willow tree, a few lamps, thousands of bamboos, and luxuriant laurels
Only without the moon over willow branches
But behind the artificial mountain
Is there really a person waiting for the date
This Is Pengxi
Low hills rise like scars of the plain
This is Pengxi. When the fresh breeze of September blows here
White blossoms of clouds are like herds of sheep in the blue sea
And the gold of morning brilliance, is shouting beyond the mountain
This is Pengxi. When the autumn wind of September blows here
The flag, windmill, tower crane and work site
How many things in the world can be changed
Mt. Peng is still green, but the rills are overflowing with silver
Cherry Blossoms Bloom

At first to wait for a rain, then for the sunshine
A tree of spring is standing on the road leading to dreamland
The lean branches have not been tinctured
The lingering spring sleeping, is not conscious of anything
But a tree still blooms
Splitting and cracking like spliced video
And now the night rain suddenly awakens me
Saying that when it is fine tomorrow, cherry blossoms bloom like this
I See
I see red in a pile of blue
Orange yellow and green-purple, see stars and the moon
The dynamics of river water
Actually it is tranquility, spreading in a corner of city
92- Tang Yi -19
I am not on the bridge. But I see the scenery

Eyes in a door after another door
Which must have seen
A person who often walks by the water bare-footed
with a pair of shoes in hand
Snail Lake
Really, I never doubt the legend
A golden snail which is observing and doing has fallen love with an
unsophisticated farmer
The delicious food made by her secretly
Is still thought-provoking in the lake-side old mans narration
And I, only smell a spell of rice fragrance
The girl of golden snail is still in the misty waves, going back and forth to
benefit mankind
People will of course remember her virtue
And this lake and peninsula is called the Snail Lake
Fragrance by Itself
The tide of a person rolls over the beach
Time backdates, with the significance of returning pearls
Characters, stories, mirror images
like a flower which is illumined by the sun
The sea market which is only self-seen
In the sea-side cabin
There should be love book phrases spoken here
Fragrance lingers, silence also persists
Unlike sprays, which disappear in the blink of an eye
Toth Arpad (Artangel) ) (

Romanian poet and prose author, born in Scele (Braov, Romania). He moved to Covasna
County where he became, as a student, an award-winner in the poetry and Romanian
93- Toth Arpad -11
language and literature competitions and olympics. His academic bakground includes two
university degrees (Civil Law and Silviculture). He developed all his career serving as a
ranger, at this time in the Comandu Rangers Office, Human Resources Department.
Married with children, he is also very active in the field of literature. He published more
than a dozen of literary works and his poems were highly-praised by readers and critics. His
most popular work is Mans Close Encounters With The Brown Bear poetry book series.
Pote et prosateur roumain, n Scele (Braov, Romania). son actif sinscrivent des
uvres publies, des prix et diffrentes activits culturelles.
CRIASA NATURII I COPIII EI

QUEEN OF THE NATURE AND HER CHILDREN
(extract - extrait - extracto - (
Poem in Romanian, with English version by Drago Barbu
(Naji Naamans literary prize, merit prize, 2014)
FAZANUL
De o rar frumusee
Cu tiuta-i gentilee,
Pe sub tufe, prin pdure,
Nu-i place frigul s-ndure!
Ginua e mai mic.
Cu coada-i cam subiric,
Penele-i sunt aranjate,
La coco mai colorate.
THE PHEASANT
Well, his beauty is quite rare
But he always knows to share
Its the woods he likes the most
And he doesnt stand the frost.
94- Toth Arpad -11
His wife is a smaller hen

With a thinner tail of wren
But the roosters one is large
To show us who is in charge!
Virginia Murru
Italian poetess and journalist, born in Sardinia (Italy). Studied Economics, and is publishing
her articles in three on line newspapers: Vivicentro news, Liguria2000news and Alganews,
where many italian TV and radio journalists collaborate for. Participated to many literary
contests, and got some 80 prizes! President of La rosa dei venti (cultural association).
Potesse et journaliste italienne, ne en Sardaigne (Italie). son actif sinscrivent des crits,
beaucoup de prix et des activits culturelles.
CERTE VOLTE I POETI SONO INGENUI

SOMETIMES POETS ARE NAIVE
Poem in Italian, with English version.
CERTE VOLTE I POETI SONO INGENUI

I poeti non sono uccelli implumi
hanno ali potenti
per voli ascensionali
e il disimpegno dai rumori
ma si fermano alla prima atmosfera
o su un filo di corrente
ad osservare le cadute del mondo.
95- Virginia Murru -11
I poeti se ne vanno imperterriti

tra folle di pensieri- in fila come soldati
che non sanno dire signor s
non hanno generali i poeti sono disubbidienti
nati con catene spezzate
liberi come rondini che migrano
quando il sole nasconde la luce-
I poeti a volte sono ingenui
e non lo sanno
accarezzano la gloria
come fosse belva mansueta.
SOMETIMES POETS ARE NAIVE

Poets are not featherless birds
they have powerful wings
to fly high
and disconnect from the noise.
But they rise to the (lower) atmosphere
on an electric cable
and stop to observe the world falling -
Poets go undeterred
among crowds of thoughts
they lined up like soldiers
who never say: yes, sir..
They dont like generals
Poets are disobedient
born with broken chains
free like migrating swallows
when the sun hides the light.
Poets sometimes are nave persons
and they dont know
they caress glory
as it was a docile beast.
Vladislav Vlahovic
Montenegran poet and satiric writer, born in 1963 (Rovci, Kolain, Montenegro). Education:
from elementary in Montenegro, through secondary and higher in Mostar (Bosnia and
Herzegovina), Zadar (Croatia) and Belgrade (Serbia), to the doctoral level post-graduate
studies. Writes aphorisms, epigrams, poetry and satirical prose. His works were published in
over 60 newspapers and magazines and electronic media in Montenegro, Serbia, Macedonia,
Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Australia, Germany, France, Holland, Bulgaria, Russia
and Great Britain. Parts of his works were translated into more than ten languages, including
English, German, French and Russian. Winner of over 50 literary awards and prizes,
including about 40 international. In the opinion of critics, he is ranked at the very top of the
satirical writers of middle generation of the (ex)Yugoslav-speaking area. Member of the
Association of Writers of Montenegro, Association of Writers of Serbia and London Press
Club. Professional pilot and member of RAF Club. Speaks English and Russian. Lives in
Podgorica, Montenegro, and Brussels, Belgium.
Pote et auteur montngrin, n en 1963 Rovci (Kolain, Montenegro). Il a son actif des
livres publis, plusieurs prix et diffrentes activits culturelles.
ISTO KAO SUZA/AS CLEAN AS A WHISTLE

Text in Montenegran and English.
ISTO KAO SUZA

Oni su imali nekako ba prijatan nastup, a i laku ruku brate... Skoro da smo ih
zavoljeli, jo dok im nita nijesmo vjerovali. Umjeli su i tako lijepo da nas potapaju po
ramenu. Milina jedna, zaista, jer to volimo od kada znamo za sebe... Kakva razlika, od
ranijih prijatelja... Prosto da ne moe da vjeruje da smo mi ustvari do skora bili
neprijatelji!? Jednostavno, da ti bude ao to si tako neto umislio i to se nijesi odmah
pustio, ali sada to je, tu je...
Slali su nam oni ak i pomo kad nam je bilo najpotrebnije,(po miljenju mnogih,
da nam je ne alju), ali prihvatali smo je, da se ne ljute, iako nijesmo ni znali ta emo posle
s njom. Bilo je tu brana iz 1939, makarona iz srednjeg vijeka, sanitetrskog materijala iz
doba falangi, sve sami rariteti, a mi seljaine kidisali da to koristimo, umjesto da stavimo u
97- Vladislav Vlahovic -11
muzej. Stvarno ne znamo, pa to ti je, a i crni narod, sve ivo pojede... Naroito se to
pokazalo sa stonom hranom. Nae laboratorije dokazivale da je neispravna, a oni mislili
da je za nas a ne za stoku, pa da se nee kontrolisati... Eto kako smo ih opet iznevjeravali i
opet se zamjerali, a oni opet po ko zna koji put pratali... Zbog tog svakodnevnog srljanja i
velikih ideja, sveli su nas na razumnu meru, za nae dobro, zna se. Onda je vrijeme stalo, pa
se mogla sagledavati i odgovornost. Tu su nastali itavi spiskovi. Da bi skratili proces mi
smo kolektivno priznali krivicu, ali opet nekako nespretno brate, tako da oni nijesu mogli
nai model kako da nam pola oproste, to je bilo na vrhu dogovoreno, pa su nam toliko
dodali, radi ravnotee meu zvezdama... Mi smo se po malo udili, ali u tajnosti, uvjereni da
je do nas, da ih opet ta ne naljutimo...
A onda je avanzovao jedan veoma prljavih ruku, po naem miljenju, do koga ni mi
sami nijesmo valjano drali... Bez obzira na to razmimoilaenje u stavovima samih sa
sobom, veina nas je uprla prstom u njega, uvidjevi to kao veliku ansu..., a on mrtav
ladan. Meutim, insistirali smo: on ima prljave ruke, on ima prljave ruke. (nijesmo
govorili krvave da ne uznemiravamo meunarodnu neja, a i naa je krv u pitanju pa su oni
shvatili i kad smo rekli prljave).
Tu su se po prvi put relevantni meunarodni faktori malo zamislili. Brzo su
reagovali, to jest jest... Uputili su svoga oveka da malo u tajnosti o tome sa nama
popria.
Taj njihov ovek, koji je djelovao pomalo kao da je na, brzo je prekratio priu,
zgraajui se tolikom prljavtinom njegovih ruku, predlaui da se taj sluaj dugorono
ekonomski reava, te da u narednih 100 godina njegova zemlja uvozi sapun i druga
higijenska sredstva u nau malu, napaenu i niim izazvanu zemlju. Jo je dodao da bi 10 %
od toga moglo ii nama, ako zaboravimo to sa prljavim rukama... Mi smo to prihvatili kao
gest dobre volje i razumijevanja, ali smo potpisujui negodovali, jer smo insistirali da to
bude na 99 godina, ali nita nije pomagalo, pa smo se zadovoljili jedinim moguim
ustupkom, da pojedinosti iz toga ugovora ostanu u tajnosti bar narednih 25 godina.
Meutim, dobro obavijeteni izvor iz vrhu bliskih krugova, koji je elio da ostane
anoniman, dojavio je to nekim medijima... Zbog odredbi ugovora, mi smo to morali u
cjelosti demantovati iako je sve navedeno tano. Uostalom, htjeli smo ignorisati situaciju
bar par dana da se praina slegne, ali javnost je insistirala i morali smo sve pod hitno
demantovati na konferenciji za tampu. Na toj konferenciji novinari su citirali ranije iskaze
o prljavim rukama... Nai su gledali u udu ne znajui o emu se radi, jer su takvu
instrukciju dobili direktno od ugovorne strane. Onda je neko iz sedme sile ponovo
insistirao: ali molim vas, govorili ste da on ima prljave ruke. Tu je ve bilo stvarno dosta,
pa se ukljuio portparol, kome je navodno bilo prekipelo
Veoma ljubazno, ali sa indignaciom sve je odbacio i sve pojedinosti kategoriki
negirao, sputajui loptu rijeima: ne, oito ste vi nas s nekim zamijenili ili pomijeali,
moda... Ovaj, tano je da smo mi govorili o tome kako on ima malo klempave ui, ali smo
kasnije uvidjeli da je to bila iluzija nastala varijacijama njegove frizure... To sa rukama je
tendenciozno i to rade pojedinci koji ele da kompromituju nezavisne medijeNikog od
odgovornih ni ne zanima ak da li on upote i ima ruke
Poto nema vie pitanja, hvala na saradnji, perimo ruke, za zakusku, da ne gubimo
vrijeme, a napismeno ete dobiti sta treba da mislite, pardon, da objavite
Ve narednog dana sapun je poeo da stie u enormnim koliinama, ali mi i dalje
nijesmo mijenjali navike po pitanju pranja ruku i kupanja
AS CLEAN AS A WHISTLE
They had somewhat of a pleasant appearance, and were pretty generous, bro. We
almost came to love them even while we still didnt believe them a word. They knew how to
pat us on the shoulder so nicely. A true pleasure, really, because that was something we
have loved ever since we had come to be. What a difference, considering they had been our
former friends! One just could not believe that in fact we were enemies until quite recently!?
Simply, to make one feel sorry for having even thought of something like that and did not
immediately surrender, but now there is what is.
They had even sent us relief supplies when we needed them most (in the opinion of
many, they shouldnt have), but we accepted it not to make them cross even though we did
not even know what we were going to do with it later. There was flour from 1939, pasta
from the middle ages, sanitary material from the time of the phalanxes - all sheer rarities;
and we, country folks, set to use that instead of depositing it in the museum. We really do
not know things that are that and the people in need eat everything at hand. This was
particularly true with fodder. Our laboratories claimed that it was defective, and the donors
had thought it was for us and not for the cattle so that it would not be controlled. That was
how we failed them and aroused their anger again, but they forgave us again for the
umpteenth time. It was due to such daily taking plunge and grand ideas that they reduced us
to a reasonable measure - for our own good, it is known. Then the time has stopped and
accountability could be assessed. Long lists were compiled. To shorten the process we have
collectively admitted our own fault, but again somehow clumsily, bro, so that they were not
able to find a model for remitting us half of it which was agreed at the highest level, so they
added as much on us just for the sake of keeping balance among the stars. We were a little
astonished, but in secret, confident that it was up to us and not to make them get crossed
again.
And then one, who in our opinion had very dirty hands and whom ourselves did not
esteem highly, was promoted. Regardless of the divergence in our own stands, the majority
of us pointed fingers at him seeing it as a great chance. But he kept as frigid as dead.
However, we insisted: Hes got dirty hands, he's got dirty hands... (we were not using the
word bloody in order not to agitate the international minors, and besides our own blood
was involved, and they clearly understood when we said dirty).
That was when for the first time the relevant international factors started
deliberating. Their reaction was rapid, that is true. They deployed their man to confer with
us about it in secret.
That man of theirs, who acted a little bit as one of our own lot, quickly cut the
story short abhorred with so much filth on our mans hands and proposed that the case be
economically treated on a long-term basis, and that in the next 100 years his country be
exporting soap and other hygiene supplies into our small, suffering and provoked-by-
nothing state. He added that 10% of that could go to us - if we would forget all that about
the dirty hands. We accepted it as a gesture of good will and understanding, but while
signing we grumbled and insisted that it be for 99 years, but to no avail, so we had to satisfy
ourselves with the only possible concession - that the details of that agreement remain
confidential for at least the following 25 years.
However, a well informed source close to the top circles who wanted to remain
anonymous, tipped it to some media. Because of the provisions of the agreement we had to
completely confute the matter in full although all the things said were true. In any case we
wanted to ignore the situation for at least a couple of days for the dust to settle, but the
public was insistent and we had to immediately deny all at a press conference. At that
conference the journalists quoted the earlier statements about dirty hands. Our lot looked at
this in amazement not knowing what it was all about, because they had received that kind of
instruction directly from the contracting party. Then someone from the fourth estate insisted
again: But, please, it was you saying that he had dirty hands... That was already enough so
the spokesman, who has allegedly blown up, stepped in.
Very politely, but with indignation, he rejected everything and denied all the details
categorically, throwing a low ball with the words: No, you have obviously confused us
with someone else, or mixed us, maybe... Well, it is true that we had talked about him being
somewhat lop-eared, but we later realised that it was an illusion created by the variations of
his hairstyle. That thing with his hands is biased and it is done by individuals who want to
discredit the independent media None of those responsible are interested in even if hes
got hands at all... Since there are no more questions, thank you for your cooperation, and
lets not waste our time but lets wash our hands for the snacks. You will get in writing
what you should think, pardon me, publish...
Already the next day the soap began arriving in enormous quantities, but we kept
resisting changing our habits regarding hand washing and bathing
Xu Chunfang
Chinese poet and journalist, born in 1976 (Wangjiang County, Anhui Province, China).
Graduated in 1998 from the Chinese Department of Anhui Normal University. Has been a
teacher and editor-reporter, and now he is a civil servant and executive editor of The World
Poets Quarterly (multilingual). Winner of The Best Poet for the 1st Anhui Poetry. His
works have been carried on a variety of newspapers and magazines, such as Chinese and
Overseas Literature, Stars, Shanghai Poets, Flying Heavenward, Poetry Monthly, Green
Wind, Poetry Forest, Poetry Tide, Pure Brightness, Anhui Daily, Tibet Daily, and Xinan
Evening Paper, etc., and some of his works have been included into Chinese Poetry
Almanac, Annual Excellent Chinese Essays 2014, and The Feast of Words, etc. His
published poetry collections include Song of Solomon and Carols.
Pote et journaliste chinois, n en 1976 Wangjiang (Anhui, Chine). Il a son actif des
crits, des prix et des activits culturelles.
100- Xu Chunfang -11
/THE DIRGE OF A BELOVED GIRL BABY

Poem in Chinese, with English version by Zhang Zhizhong.
101- Xu Chunfang -11
THE DIRGE OF A BELOVED GIRL BABY

God Himself nails me on the cross
Bodhisattva forcefully pushes me into the hell of muddy ploughs
O my baby, in the womb of your mom
Why do you suddenly stop your fetal movement
You have given me transient joy like the lightning

You make me feel the fleetness of transience
O my baby, your arrival
Has been the vitamin of my soul
I used to talk to you who are within the belly of your mom
I feel the belly of your mom as if I am feeling you
O, my baby, how I yearn
To be able to play together with you and your brother
I have not heard your cry

I have not seen what you are like
O, my baby, why do you desert me
And deprive me of my bliss of being your father?
Before you wear the new dress I have prepared for you
Before you enter the photo of our whole family
O, my baby, why do you depart so unfeelingly
Leaving me with an empty heart, an empty wait
The memory has become a soulless heavenly body

Which is turning in the lonely orbit
O, my baby, I hope that in heaven
You can remember the affection of your dad
I dare no more pray for a perfect family bliss

I have buried deep many fond dreams
O, my baby, how I wish that
We are preordained to meet again in this world

Anthology Naji Naaman's Literary Prizes 2017

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prix littraires

FCG fondation naji naaman

Ont contribu la publication du prsent livre

FGC Naji Naamans Foundation for Gratis Culture

fifteenth picking season: 2016-2017.

prix du mrite - merit prizes - premios de mrito:

prix de crativit - creativity prizes - premios de creatividad:

prix d'honneur - honor prizes - premios de honor:

Ah, pobre homem iracional

A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO CHEER

KOH PR T QAR, KOH PR T QESHUR

A TIME TO WEEP, A TIME TO CHEER

Everything will come, everything will go.

CABALGATA ETREA/ETHEREAL RIDE

sobre dos siluetas.

UNA FLOR ANTIGUA

Te simt n totul ...

I feel you in everything...

I feel you in everything...

Ti sento in ogni cosa ...

Ti sento in ogni cosa ...

AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO

AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA GABING

AKOY NAKADAMA SA IYO NG LAHAT NG KALAHATANG BAGAY SA AKING PAGSALO

Together we walked down a lane

Angela-Melania Cristea (Angi Cristea) ) ( -

Potesse roumaine dorigine macdoine, ne le 25 dcembre 1976 Craiova (Judeul Dolj,

ULTIMA EDIIE/LATEST EDITION

tapered fingers are money/last Mohicans of writing/

URTI GENTILI/GENTLE COLLISIONS

ingorgo che resiste

of its branches so it can focus

BACIO ALLA TERRA/LAND KISS

BACIO ALLA TERRA

E c con te tua figlia, la pi bella

Gracious guests have arrived

And culture, civil celebrities,

I request your complete silence,

Within greens around her,

With their feet,

And the entire range of different instruments,

And the sea, at this complementing phase of climax,

Cornelia Pun (Cornelia Heinzel) )(

Aujourdhui, demain, aprs-demain, pour toujours

I varje gonblick finns det ett viktig handling

Su di me, su di te, su di esso,

Russian version by Andrey Vlasov

Kada chwila moe zmieni twoje ycie.

Japanese version by Tomoko Taneichi

53- Cornelia Pun -31

Za trenutek si lahko dober kralj,

Greek version by Constantin Themelis

Georgian version by Temo Zhuzhunashvili

Tu cathi sticu di oar s-adar un lucru di thimelj

Indian version by Dev Kumar

Korean version by Ioana Zaharia

Har lamhe ka apna hisab hota hai,jo bohat zaroori hai

Trong mi khonh khc u c ni cho hot ng quan trng

en remplissant avec moins un le demain

Intercontinental Cultural Association. His poetry collection A Jewel of my Soul was

AJEEB DAUR SE HO KAR GUZAR RAHA HOON MEI(N)

AJEEB DAUR SE HO KAR GUZAR RAHA HOON MEI(N)

Mei(n) dekhta hoo(n) hawao(n) ko sar patakte huey