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You can see her among Egyptian girls' styles.
Her rosy lips are like Tharia's when she smiles.

Her eyes glow like Thania's, twin stars shine,
Her wavy hair cascades, parted to the left, neatly in line.

With the sweetest hairstyle, she seems like Kamal's bride,
Her deep golden wheat skin mirrors Khadra's pride.

Her tenderness, as breeze, shows Sawsan's grace.
Blush roses on her cheeks, painting a glimmering face.

Oh my God, truly, she is a masterpiece.
Her photo moves from hand to hand, hearts aspiring peace.

A gaze of pity towards her youth,
While those unaware wonder about truth.

Djamila's fate, a truth, can not be silenced to set her free.
Djamila from Algeria, the land by the Mediterranean sea.

Proudly, knights of legends, our brethren sharing the Arab identity.
A flag planted, fluttering on the peak, symbol of fidelity.

Those abandoning their homes, comfort, and warmth.
Standing firm for justice, to live a dignity's worth.

A rebel from the people's heart, who hates the wrongs, brave and true.
She loves Algeria, songs, buildings, gardens, and children, too.

Djamila's fate lies beyond all imagination's might,
She runs while bleeding,O wound, endure the plight.

Locals count the days, and my love for Algeria exceeds worship.
Cut and run, with a bullet in her shoulder, bones shattered in hardship.

She bled, ran, until she crumbled from strain.
The attack dogs caught her, yet she never surrendered despite the pain.

Yet she never spilled, despite torture, crucifixion, and relentless force.
Oh, the sorrow for the youth, trapped in dogs' jaws, with no remorse.

They wrote torment upon her, where wedding vows should have been.
The world spins, and the eye has silently seen.

In her picture, her eyes, like Thania's, appeared.
Fading lips that once laughed like Tharia's, that now disappeared.

Her wavy hair, parted from the left side,
It was soaked in blood rather than cascading like Kamal's bride.

The apple of her mother’s eye, the sprite of strife,
Djamila’s fate is a load  that even mountains can not strive.

A single string from the violin's heart wailed in the anthem's prelude for her,
The remaining strings screamed without tears, reaching the throats of the masses everywhere

Before the courthouse door, the crowd stands still, singing a thunderous song,
While judges, a ruthless band, with hearts of stone, their judgment wrong.

As if upon their eyes, a haze,
A blood upon their hands, ablaze.
They listen to the songs, as in a distant land, so wide,
What good are meanings in mind, so dark and blind?

Through endless nights, the guillotine is whetted, chains are drawn,
While in her cell, she waits till dawn.

Throughout the night, the battles rage within the mountain’s stronghold deep,
And Jamila, through the storm and cage, lives on hope, her soul to keep.

O hero, move forward with the rifle in your hand,
Let the fire ignite, for the battle will stand.

For Djamila, her fate is naught but never to give up.
No escape from striving, nothing but to rise up.
-Written by Salah Jaheen, a leading Egyptian poet, lyricist, playwright, and cartoonist.
-Translated by Menna Abd-Eldaiem
Translator and Poetess
-Djamila Bouhired is an Algerian nationalist militant who opposed the French colonial rule of Algeria as a member of the National Liberation Front.
 Feb 20 MS Anjaan
Liana
I may not believe in a god(s)
But that does not mean that I do not have a religion

I believe in poetry
Not everyone has a god, but everyone has a religion. For some it's art, animals, money, or music. For me, it is words, or poetry. At night I do not pray to God, I write poetry. I do not ask God for answers, I write to figure them out myself. Poetry is my religion.
Cannot grasp how deep I adore,
A feeling I've never felt before.

Wonder how you shape my heart,
Even though it's never a tender part.

So tell me, what should I do?
Shall I unveil my heart to you?

Here's my heart, now it's yours,
Its sorrows and joys are yours.

Sorrows gloom, a lasting doom,
Joys bloom, erasing the gloom.

Indeed, both are true,
But, it was always you.
By Menna Abd-Eldaiem
Translator and Poetess
I smell a fragrance
Familiar to me
There’s no one around
Except just for me
It’s quiet
It’s dark
It’s calm
I feel a gentle tickle on my arm
But there’s no one there
I can not see
I think it’s a spirit
Trying to talk to me
Someone gone before
But now just passing by!
It’s strange this did happen years ago! And sometime later I heard my God Mother had died around about then and no one had told me! until ages later!
The field is full of pheasants
All running around
There’s the runners and
The males and females
Abound in the long dry grass

I try to take a picture
But no, alas, they have class,
They’re hiding in the long dry grass
No pictures to be had
somehow it made me sad

It was a rare old sight
End of the day
Coming night
No gun just a camera
They probably thought I’d shoot

It really was a hoot!
The bamboo tree is waving at me
The wind is getting worse
It’s swinging side to side
As if it has a curse
And then it stops quite still
The rain comes down at will
And now he’s getting wet
The wind comes back with force
He swings around of course
His branches shudder and shake
I hope that wind will break
The mind
Hurling
Burning
Squirming
The body
Twisting
Tossing
Turning
Can’t sleep

Thinking
Worrying
So deep

Tired
Unwired
Then sleep!


Snoring!
 Jan 24 MS Anjaan
Liana
Far away we are
But at least when we look up
We see the same sky
Experimenting with Haikus

Everyone from here might be millions of miles away, but I take comfort from the fact that we all see the same sky when we look up. We might have a different perspective or opinion on it, but it is the same sky.


(This note was written by a W-rex who has no name. He carried a backpack full of shame.)
Asphalt night
by red dawn’s light
descends into deepest fog.

A glimmer of bright
on the edge of sight
shimmers blue: I begin to walk.
Inspired by this photo I took in thick night fog: https://bsky.app/profile/jackgroundhog.bsky.social/post/3lgavecz3q22j
A space-age fortress of glitzy build
stands empty. It had once been filled
with shining futures of tinsel, milled
of bronze for a time that all would thrill.

How empty the future past now seems
behind the glass of wasted dreams:
Once polished steel now dimly gleams
and old high tech lies there unredeemed.

Its giant clock now standing still,
the hands unmoving, like hopes that will
remain as frozen in amber that’s filled
with flies of dreams: placebo pills.
Inspired by this photo I took of the (long unused) International Congress Center in Berlin: https://bsky.app/profile/jackgroundhog.bsky.social/post/3lgdsydllb22l
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