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SimpleWritings Dec 2018
Ma
Inħobbok

Mhux dejjem naraw għajn b’għajn
Imma nħobbok

Naf li dejjem pruvajt mill-aħjar li stajt
Biex tagħtini dak li int qatt ma ngħatajt

Imma sfortunatament mhux dejjem irnexxilek
Il-Mulej mhux dejjem provdilek

Jien qatt m’għidtlek meta nqasstni
Meta bin-nuqqas tiegħek warrabtni

Qatt ma ridt niksirlek qalbek
U ngħidlek li ħadd mhu qed jisma talbek

Imma iva Ma,
Weġġgħajt

Għaddejt minn ħafna u int ma taf b’ xejn
Alla ħares tkun taf kif u x’ fatta u fejn

Bħalek Ma,
Għaddejt minn dak li m’ għandu jgħaddi ħadd

Ġarrabt id-dlam
U bkejt fis-solitudni

Imma issa Ma
Sa fl-ahhar...

Inħoss li sibt il-kuntentizza
Inħoss li qbadt it-trejqa li qed nibni jien

Ma rridx nibqa naħbilek iktar
Għajjejt nigdeb u nħaref

Allura għidtlek

Ma flaħtx inżomm iktar
U għidtlek

Kienet diffiċli għax kont beżgħana
Imma ridt naqsam din l-aħbar ferħana

Stennejt li ser tifhimni
Stennejt li xorta waħda ser tibqa tħobbni

Imma

Ir-reazzjoni tiegħek ma kienetx dik li stennejt
Ma kienetx dik li f’ moħħi pinġejt

Għalfejn Ma?
Għalfejn ma tridnix?
Għalfejn mhux taċċettani?

Għidli Ma

Lil min inħobb ma għandux jaffettwa kemm inti tħobb lili
Lil min inħobb ma għandux inessik li jien xorta waħda bintek

Mara offritli dak li dejjem fittixt
Mara għallmitni nagħraf x’inhi l-imħabba

Mara urietni kif jidher id-dawl fost id-dlam
Mara qed tgħini nsir inħobb lili nnifsi

Iva Ma

Inħobb mara
U mhux raġel

Għalfejn qed tħares lejja b’ dak il-mod Ma?

B’ ħarsa ta’ diżappunt
B’ ħarsa ta’ diżgust

Bintek għadni Ma

L-istess b-i-n-t li kont tgħannaq miegħek
Meta kont tħoss li d-dinja qed tikrolla

L-istess b-i-n-t li kont tiftaħar tgħid li hi tiegħek
Lil kull min taf meta tilmaħni fost il-folla

Ħobbni Ma
Nitolbok

L-istess għadni
Biss, ħrigt mill-moħba

15/10/2018
This poem is written in Maltese.
SE Reimer Sep 2016
a tribute

~

memories...
in fading sepia we find,
the romance of
another time;
albums filled
with black and white,
of glossy faces
burnt in fading light;
boxes of our ko-dak-chro-ments,
gone-by treasures,
once-upon-a-moments;
wistful years once crystal clear,
mem’ries drowned in haze,
resurface now,
renewed in tears,
...as we remember well.

memories...
the yellow ribbons tied,
’round an ol’ oak tree;
anxious waiting to make an “us”,
the anticipation of a “he and me”;
until the news from distant shore,
yet another casualty of war,
and now remains but this,
a marble slab inscribed,
in accolades of former glory,
merely remnants ’midst the pines;
on forest lawn where promises,
tween two for’er became untwined,
...as she remembers well.

memories...
so many are the ways
the mem’ry onward lives
even this, a,
“do this in...” request
restores a covenant anew
a "remembrance of..."
the “we” here left behind,
be it in the bread we break,
this forever to remind,
a sacrosanct entreaty made,
promise sealed as blood in wine,
reserving not for deities alone,
but given us immortal souls,
to us a gift at birth,
of staggering import,
responsibility of heavy worth;
of after-ashes keeping still,
an ever-after captured with
the shutter, brush and quill,
...so we remember well.

memories...
its keeping cherished lovingly
though its loss,
its diminishment bereaved;
as lovers silent grieve,
those lost to us yet breathe,
in memories ’midst the breeze.
forgetful of the slightest
until one day in finality
their mortal soul is set free
into immortality.
...to for’er remember.

memories...
to us, a call, a charge,
a “ne’er forget”
a duty large
a “do this in
remembrance of”
this our promise
to e’er remember,
always keep;
forgetting never,
to carry the flame,
while we yet live
in sunshine’s grip;
an oath is sworn,
that forever we,
shall always ready be,
for in remembering best,
the tears flow easily,
and so it isn't pity,
of a loss i seek,
no,
for ’tis in finding memory
that i shall always weep,
...as i remember well.

~

post script.

of love lost in the haze of war; of lives changing motion, a baby is born, as a grandmother moves into memory care... a cycle of life, brought full circle best in remembrance.  and this makes remembering perhaps the most important facet that defines, sets us apart as humans, best captured in this thought, "in forgetting the past we cease to be and bring hope forward for the future. and so we remember... for we must never forget!” and so we line our shelves, our walls with them, visiting inscribed stones behind fences.  

dedicated today to our memories each of loved ones, lovers lost; but on this dark eve, especially those who lost those souls, three thousand strong, a darkest day of remembrance, this September the eleventh, who never got to say goodbye... so we remember well!
SimpleWritings Dec 2018
Żmien ta’ ferħ w ’nnoċenza
ta’ sempliċita u purezza
Żmien ħieles mill-inkwiet
u mżejjen bil-paċi fis-skiet

Dak li dejjem smajt
u dak li dejjem tgħallimt
Pero m’ huwiex dak li esperjenzajt
m’ huwiex dak li ngħatajt

Mingħalihom li tawni kollox
Mingħalihom li ma naqsuni f’xejn
Mur għidilhom kemm battejt
Kemm minħabba fihom soffrejt

Noħlom bi tfulija
sempliċi u pura
Nixtieq li ġejt mogħtija
bidu ta’ ħajja sura

16/04/2009
This poem is written in Maltese
Julian Delia Sep 2018
Is-solitudni hija inkredibbli.
Il-pinna tirtogħod jien u nikteb,
Estensjoni tat-taħwid ta’ ġismi.
Inħossni qisni forti imwaqqa’, inaċċessibli.
Xi kultant, nitħajjar nitfa ruħi għall-irkant;
Nagħmel patt ma’ xi dB jew xi Gasan,
Jew inkella, mal-mexxej, l-aqwa negozjant.

Mhux xorta?
X’fiha billi nilqgħu il-partit f’darna?
X’jimporta?
Mhux l-aqwa li mmorru l-fosos bi ħġarna?

Iżda, mhux dak hu l-messaġġ;
Minn dil-lejla siekta, nixtieq niehu vantaġġ.
Xtaqt neżamina għalfejn ninsab waħdi;
Qiegħed id-dar b’ommi u missieri sular taħti,
Iżda, minflok ninsab hawn, magħluq f’kamarti.
Mistoħbi, bl-iskuża li qiegħed noħloq l-arti.

Sħabi kollha xogħol jew isaħħarhom xi eżami,
B’hekk, ninsab nirrifletti, b’espressjoni gravi.
Fejn tobsor, li ta’ tlieta u għoxrin
Tkun weħilt go ħabs mentali agħar minn Kordin?
Ċella magħmula mill-ħsibijiet,
Joħorgu qishom ħalba mis-smewwiet.

Tgħix b’mohh mixgħul ġo pajjiż li jħobb id-dlam
Tħossok distint daqs tazza inbid aħmar li waqgħet *** l-irham.
Xi kultant, mejjet tkun biex titfieh;
Xejn ma jirnexxilek tagħmel biex tistrieh.

_________

(in English)

The solitude is incredible.
The pen shakes as I write,
An extension of my body's agitation.
I feel like a ruined fort, inacessible.
Sometimes, I fancy putting my soul up for auction;
Strike a deal with dB or Gasan (1),
Or maybe, with our leader, the best merchant (of them all).

Is it not all the same?
So what if we let the party in our household?
What does it matter,
As long as we go to il-Fosos (2), en masse?

But, that is not the message;
Of this quiet night, I'd like to take advantage.
I wanted to examine why I'm all alone;
I'm at home, with my parents a floor below me,
Yet, I find myself here, locked in my room,
Hidden, with the excuse of making art.

My friends are either working or bewitched by an exam,
Hence, I find myself reflecting, with a grave expression.
Who would've thought, at age twenty-three
I would be stuck in a mental prison worse than Kordin (3)?
A cell made of thoughts,
That come out like a storm from the heavens.

To live with an enlightened mind in a country that loves darkness
Feels as distinct as a glass of red wine spilled on a marble tile.
Sometimes, you just wish you could switch it off;
Nothing helps to give you relief.
1 = enormous local entities that have amassed wealth through the exploitation of my country and its people.
2 = a popular spot for political mass meetings in Floriana.
3 = an area in Paola where the local prison is.
Julian Delia Apr 2019
Li kieku jerġa jiġi Kristu,
Lanqas jilħaq jitma ruħ.
Tilħqu taqfluh ġo skola,
Imsallab mill-punt tat-tluq.
Jilħaq jitlef ruħu fi xmara dmugħ,
Hekk kif il-ħajja jduq.
Jerġa jħoss x’jiġifieri in-niket,
Kif jarana naħxu dak li nibet,
L-ambjent tagħna, b’passjoni neqirduh.

Swied il-qalb;
Mument ta’ skiet,
Mument ta’ talb.

Qalb mogħdiet miksija bil-konkrit,
Nesprimi dar-rabja u dan l-inkwiet,
Ngħix il-ħajja mingħajr irbit.
Ngħid dak li nħoss,
Noħroġ dan il-kliem mingħajr intopp,
Nidgħi, meta xi gvern ireddali xi żobb.

Ilni ma nikteb,
Għax b’dan il-kliem ma nafx x’ħa nikseb.
Dil-kuxjenza li xogħla tniggżek,
X’għamilniela biex tfejniha, tgħid?
Għax jien nġibilha skużi, ġieli;
Ġieli, tgħidx kemm nigdeb.

* *

Vera ilni nipprova;
Nipprova naċċetta li nagħmel dak li d-dinja ta’ madwari tapprova,
Sa għamilt kors, ma nafx kif, imma ggradwajt u krejt it-toga.
Tgħallimt, u sirt għalliem,
Ktibt poeżiji li jħalluk bla kliem.
Ippruvajt insib il-paċi u s-sliem,
Qtajt il-pastażati bl-addoċċ,
Iż-żiblata ta’ bla ħsieb.

Xejn ma ħadem;
Xejn, kull ma għamilt inqridt,
Sa ġieli dħalt fid-dejn.
Qisni mort ngħix fi sqaq l-infern.
Donnu, d-destin tiegħi qisu ħaddiem tal-gvern.
Dejjem għajjien u dejjem m’hu sejjer imkien,
Destinat li nolqot in-noti b’mod stunat,
Imwelled f’did-dinja b’ritmu sfrenat.

Min jaf kif jitbellah Kristu,
Jekk jerġa jiġi ħdejna;
Jara kif it-tagħlim insejna,
Kif ngħixu ġo gaġġa mżejna,
Kif mingħalina li sirna s-sidien ta’ dil-gżira ċkejkna.

L-ewwel, inwerwruh bl-injoranza grassa,
Bil-passivita’ ta dil-***** ċassa.
Imbagħad, ngħaxxquh b’kemm hawn minnha jmutu bil-ġuħ,
Biex ma ngħidux *** f’liema direzzjoni sejrin,
Kif ilna għaddejjin; ‘l-aqwa li jien minn ***!’

Ejja ngħidu li ma nsallbuhx, ħa;
Kristu probabbli jtiha għal isfel, li kieku.
Qabel ma jerġa jiġi, jiġġieled ma missieru;
Jgħidlu ‘le, ma rridx ninżel!’

Qalbna, il-qofol mikul bin-nekrożi, tinten,
Bil-mewt madwarna, tittanta u tiżfen.
X’saltna t’Alla; mhux li kien,
Mhux li kien nerġgħu niksbuha maż-żmien.

____________________________________________

‘If­ Christ Came Back’

If Christ came back, he wouldn’t even have the time to feed a single soul. You’d lock him up in a school, crucified from the get-go. He would drown in a river of his own tears, as soon as he tastes life. He would experience sorrow anew, witnessing us destroying that which has blossomed, the very environment which we passionately eradicate.

Blackened, sorrowful heart; a moment of silence, a moment of prayer.

Among pathways covered in concrete, I express this rage and this anxiety, living life with no attachments. I say what I feel, pulling out these words without any resistance, swearing whenever some government shoves its **** down my throat.

I haven’t written in a while, because I don’t really know what I’m going to achieve with these words. This conscience, whose job is to sting, what have we done to it to switch off? I give it excuses, mostly; sometimes, I really do lie to it, a lot.

* *

I’ve really been trying; trying to accept doing what the world around me approves of, I even finished a degree, I don’t know how, but I graduated and rented a toga. I learned, and I became a teacher, too; I wrote poems that leave you speechless. I tried to find peace and serenity, I cut out senseless debauchery, the mindless ******.

Nothing worked; nothing, all I did was destroy myself, going into debt, even. It’s like I started to live in hell’s alley. It seems my destiny is like a government employee; always tired and going nowhere. Destined to hit notes off-key, born in a world with a relentless rhythm.

Who knows how shocked Christ would be, if he ever came back. He’d see how we forgot all his teachings, how we live in decorated cages, how we think we’ve become the lords of this tiny island.

First, we’d terrify him with our crass ignorance, with the passivity of the dazed masses. Then, we’ll make him feel worse when he sees how many of us are starving to death, not to mention the direction we’ve taken, how long we’ve been going: ‘as long as I come out on top, eh!’

Let’s say we wouldn’t crucify him, maybe; Christ would probably jump off a cliff, if anything. Before coming back, he’d argued with his father, ‘no, I don’t want to go back there again!’ Our hearts are rotting in their core, necrotic, with death dancing around us, taunting us. God’s glory? Yeah, right; if only, if only we could find that again, in due time.
Happy Easter, a*sholes.
JJ Elias May 2014
War
I haven't slept for two days now. The nights pass by slowly as I am in deep thought, my grandmother’s radio plays at full volume in the other room, and my parents and uncle talk loudly into the ears of their loved ones an ocean away.
I hear my father tell his brother to search for his son among the bodies of the dead, I hear my mother asking for the latest news and picture her standing there holding her breathe as she listens to the tired frantic voice of the person on the other end of the line, and I play the scene over and over again where my grandmother walks slowly into my room, with a back, hunched because of years of hard labor. She stares at me with a wrinkled face and a look in her eyes that I recall seeing only a few times but only when she speaks of her past, during the rough times.
She asks me if I know what's going on, and I tell her yes. Then she begins to summarize anyways, speaking in a lowered voice so that is just above a whisper enunciating each word clearly and I understand despite the usual misunderstandings between me and her, I nod my head, and release noises known worldwide to reassure someone who is speaking that the audience is listening.
And as her words become separated by seconds that tell stories in themselves, and that look in her eyes, she says in a grave voice and in a language that seems so familiar yet foreign, “chi we dak, chi we dak” then she turns around and walks out of the room in the same fashion in which she came in.
I ponder her words as I sit there.
“The world has broken, the world has broken.”
Julian Delia Aug 2018
M’hemm ebda mod ieħor
Li stajt niddivina, biex forsi tisimgħuni –
Bil-Malti issa qlibt, jekk forsi qegħdin tinnutawni.
L-ewwel ħaġa:
Fehmuni għalfejn għadha tezisti d-duttrina.
Akkost li xi ħadd jibgħatni nieħdu jien u nirfes il-bankina,
Ser ngħidha!

Għax ma ngħallmux lit-tfal tagħna
Jifhmu l-imħabba lejn il-proxxmu
Minflok il-liġi inuffiċjali
‘Min mhux magħna kontra tagħna?’  
Għax ma nitgħallmux niddiskutu u niddibattu,
Forsi nċedu ftit, flok dejjem nċaħħdu u nirribattu?
Forsi immexxu bl-eżempju; flok immorru sa’ tempju
Nitpaxxew b’deheb misruq u b’moħħ magħluq,
Nitgħallmu nieqfu niskappaw u nistaħbew,
Wara wiċċ imżejjen falz, jew xi metafora.

It-tieni ħaga, u għalissa nieqaf haw’:
Fehmuni għalfejn lesti li l-futur taghna ninġazzaw?
Nikkompromettu, nidħlu fid-dejn,
Il-valuri tagħna nirremettu, basta fl-aħħar tax-xahar
Jidħlulna imqar dawk l-elfejn.

Qabli hawn oħrajn li dan il-kliem diġà qaluh –
Malta m’hijiex ward u żahar u kollox ifugħ.
Anzi, l-intiena tal-korruzzjoni tqanqallek id-dmugħ.
Jien ma ġejtx hawn biex immaqdar u nitlaq,
Nixtieq li nkunu konxji u nieħdu dak li jixraq.
Jekk inti tixtieq hekk ukoll,
Mela ejja ningħaqdu, għax għandna ħafna xoghol.

__________________

­[in English]

There is no other way I could divine
To make you hopefully listen to me –
You may have noticed I switched to Maltese.
The first thing on the list;
Can someone explain why (religious) doctrine still exists?
Although this may elicit someone’s anger as I step out on the sidewalk,
I shall say it!

Why don’t we teach our children
To understand loving one’s fellow man
Instead of the unofficial law
‘Whoever is not with us, is against us?’
Why don’t we learn to discuss and debate,
Maybe concede a bit, rather than deny and rebate?
Maybe lead by example; instead of going to a temple,
Awed by stolen gold and closed minds,
Learn to stop escaping and hiding
Behind a fake, decorated face, or a metaphor.

The second thing on the list, and I’ll stop ‘ere:
Can someone explain why we’re ready to ruin our future?
Compromising, racking up debt,
Our values we are regurgitating as long as, at the end of the month,
We get a couple thousand (as in, money).

Others before me have already said these words –
Malta isn’t all flowers and roses, and not everything is fragrant.
Actually, the stench of corruption will make you cry.
I am not here to complain and leave,
I just wish we’d be aware so we can get what we deserve.
If you want this as well,
Then let us join together, for we have a lot of work to do.
A poem in my native tongue, Maltese.
donia kashkooli Jan 2017
I. '88 dakota

mondays still ****. granted i don't get up at the crack of dawn no more but around noon i always feel the need to leave the rest of the day behind me and take the big red monster out and go to the beach and contemplate my life for hours, so i'll reach into my tattered 35 year old prada bag for a lanyard that says "nirvana" on it (like the band, not the stage of buddhism), but then i remember that gas guzzler and i got 337 miles between us, no more, no less.

II. whidbey

on wednesdays i feel like i've shifted into an alternate universe where there are things other than evergreen trees and dirt roads, where the view when i look out the window is an interstate and dagger-like icicles that are as tall as me. maybe it started when they took down the texaco star in freeland and maybe it started the day i left, but i'm not sure if i can remember what home feels like anymore.

III. you*

i still miss you on thursdays, sometimes saturdays. i know, i thought i woulda found someone better by now too till i realized that i'd been giving myself false hope this entire time. no one will ever be you. no one's teeth will curve the same way. no one will ever love the home teams as much as you. no one will ever smile as hard when i give them my last kit-kat in a strip mall parking lot at sunset. they drink to dak prescott and spit wintergreen griz more than you ever did. i thought i would find someone better until i walked into the coldest part of heaven with some crinkled twenty dollar bills and a carharrt jacket.

*-z. vega
the title of this is written in spanish. translated to english, the title is "lucidity."
Lukas Mosley Mar 2016
I want the world in my hands,
But it's too dak outside for conquering,
I want to touch the stars,
But it's too cold outside for flying,
I need to feel the air,
But the wind will mess up my hair,
I need to hear the birds,
But I'm too afraid of getting hurt,
I want the grass under my feet,
But thorns are hiding out of sight,
I want to relax in the ocean,
But creatures are lurking in the night,
I need to feel the suns rays,
But it's too hot outisde today,
I need to go to school,
But the students there are cruel,
I haven't spoken in months,
Because I'm too afraid of getting hurt.
Louise Sep 2016
det orange skær lægger sig som et yndefuldt lag over alle de opsatte trekanter, der så fint repræsenterer den syvdags-beboende flok af festglade mennesker, der dag for dag snor sig spruttende af glæde rundt mellem de mange stier, der opfyldes af et ocean af humørfyldte druklege

jeg selv er en del af det, og jeg trasker nynnende rundt mellem lattergaspatroner, smadrede oliofska flasker og knækkede stoleben
lad os kalde det en smuk losseplads

jeg er så stærkt fascineret af atmosfæren
også selv når mit hoved sumre og pumpes op af den velkendte klang af dak
og når jeg næsten dehydrere, af alt det vand jeg burde ha indtaget, i stedet for at anvende det til at drukne min hjerne i, når mine tanker lader sig sejle roterende rundt i orange bølger
dette dræner også én fra energi
så jeg mindes tydeligt øjeblikket, hvor vi tillod os selv at falde hen en times tid
og derefter, med et sæt, vågne op af tørsten samt trangen til at fortsætte indtagelsen af det påvirkende væske

vi går over mod apollo for at
endnu en gang
opleve nydelsen af tame impala's smukke udsendelser af øregangsorgasmer
jeg har det lidt halvdårligt, og forsøger lidt akavet at rette fokus mod mine eksotiske babyhår i panden, som stikker ud fra den gule skyggekasket, der meget udiskret og med en ekstrem ensfarvet sammensætning, matcher alt andet gult på min krop
for en stund virkede ignorancen

åh, se, en pomfritbod

et sødt pars hænder smelter sammen i aftensolens skær, lige inden de vender sig mod hinanden og blidt lader deres læber mødes. selve romantikken i seancen, bliver desværre hurtigt udvekslet af et råsnaveri, og jeg ryster let på hovedet
mine midlertidige følgesvende hiver straks deres mobiler frem og filmer et nøjagtigt pragteksemplar af mit sørgelige kærlighedsliv, mens jeg står standhaftigt og udstråler et hjerteskærende ansigtstryk
under mit humoristiske og selvironiske lag af skuespil, står jeg og overvejer alvoren i den thomas helmig sang, mine ører skuer i det fjerne
og med ét fremstår hele situationen nærmest egentlig som en bedrøvelse i sig selv, når jeg realiserer sandhedens betydning

en brummende bas drøner bagfra forbi os, og jeg opfanger i selvsamme sekund, at den gigantiske højtaler, imponerende nok, er blevet hægtet fast på cyklen med knapt så sparsomme mængder gaffatape
og jeg tænker, at cyklens skarpe sving, har en vis lighed med den roterende fornemmelse af lidelse, der dybt mærkes langs min rygsøjle
om det er fra mit efterhånden propfyldte net med unødvendige, fjollede småting eller de mange udmattende gåture på pladsen er jeg ikke helt klar over

nu ligger jeg herhjemme
ikke i teltet eller hos andrea, for den sags skyld
men helt hjemme
mine øjenlåg vibrerer af savn, når jeg hører musik, der minder mig om roskilde gengivelsen af de mange øjeblikke, 'nede mette' har sejlet rundt mellem mine slidte øregange, kan ikke fremstå på samme måde, som det gjorde på festivalpladsen
lugten af cigaretter sidder stadig mellem mine fingre
jeg spekulerer over, om det måske skyldes de mange gennempillet filtre

alt i alt har jeg en mærkværdig fornemmelse af, at skulle vanedanne mig selv ind i roskildes dagsrutiner, hvilket ville være en stor overbelastning for den ellers ganske normale hverdag
men jeg sidder alligevel her, inde i min nøddeskal og tænker at min modreaktion på savnen, vel umuligt bør være andet end at lede efter de små værdifulde ligheder, der kan genskabe min fascination af roskilde festivalens mange glæder
Julian Delia Sep 2018
Mingħajr flus,
La tgħannaq u lanqas tbus –
Hekk qalulna l-imgħallma tal-passat.
Nesew javżawna *** is-serq sfaċċat;
Lanqas ħasbu *** kif il-moralita’ ta’ pajjiżna spiċċat.

Qawl li jiżvela realta’ kerha;
Messaġġ li tassew iġegħlek tħares lejn il-mera.
Mingħajr flus, aqbad u insa’ d-drittijiet!
Dak li qiegħed ngħid m’huwiex sigriet;
Għall-liberta’ tal-pajjiż,
Bkew l-ommijiet, u mietu l-missirijiet.

Issa, minflok, il-liberta’ tmur għand l-ogħla negozjant.
Sadanittant, tefawha ghal bejgħ, u gidbulek;
Qalulek li għal ġid tiegħek,
Huma u jidħku bik u jdeffsu idejhom ġo butek.

Bil-flus, mela, tagħmel triq fil-baħar!
Bil-flus, ibni torri ħalli jkollok biex tiftaħar!
Mingħajr il-flus, insa’ s-saqaf *** rasek,
Ara taħseb li xi ħadd ħa jagħti kasek!
Mingħajr il-flus, ara minn fejn ha ġġib l-ikel,
Kif ħa titma lill-uliedek mingħajr ma jkollok tfittex fiż-żibel.

Bil-flus, pero’, tħabbilx moħħok;
Mill-maġġoranza tal-poplu,
Tistħix tigi alabibżobbok.
Mistoqsija waħda għad fadalli:
Gheżież antenati li ġew qabilna, li messew xtutna –
Hawn x’għamilna lilna nfusna?

__________

(in English)

Without money,
You shall receive neither hugs, nor kisses -
That's what the wise men of old said.
They forgot to warn us about shameless theft;
They didn't think about our country's morality,
In decline.

A proverb that reveals an ugly truth;
A message that forces you to really look at a mirror.
Without money, forget your rights!
What I am now saying is no secret;
For this country's liberty,
Mothers have cried, fathers have died.

Nowadays, liberty goes to the highest bidder;
In the mean time, they put it up for sale, lying to you;
They told you it's for your own good,
As they laugh and dip their hands in your pockets.

With money, then, build a road in the sea!
With money, build a tower so you'll have plenty to boast about!
Without money, forget a roof over your head;
Don't even think someone will pay attention!
Without money, figure out where food is coming from,
How you're gonna feed your kids without dipping your hands in trash.

With money, however, don't fret;
As for the rest of the population,
Do not be embarrassed to admit you don't give a ****.
I only have one question left:
Dear ancestors who came before us, who touched our shores -
What have we done to ourselves?
'Minghajr flus la tghannaq u lanqas tbus' is an ancient pearl of Maltese 'wisdom' that inspired the words you see here.
Sean Achilleos Dec 2020
Ek is 'n alleen vlieënde uil
Ek ry op die rug van die wind
Niemand kan my hou nie
Niemand kan my vang nie
Ek lei 'n nagtelike lewe
Vol misterie
Deur die dag slaap ek
En ek **** ... ek **** nogal baie
Ek sit hier bo in my boom
Ek kyk af op die mensdom
Dom is omtrent die woord
Ek wonder hoeveel wysheid julle het
Ek wonder of julle weet *** groot 'n gebrek aan wysheid julle het
Dan in die stilte van die nag sing ek hoo hoo
Om die bygelowiges en die klein gelowiges te rattle
Veral wanneer ek op hulle huis se dak gaan sit
Dadelik skreeu hulle ... Iemand gaan dood!
Dan lag ek lekker in my vlerk vir die klomp simpel goed
Wat hieronder my rond skarrel ... Aih julle klomp liggelowige
My oë kyk deur julle
En ek weet dat julle my nie verstaan nie
*** kan julle tog ... Nooit!!!
Ek bly verre weg van die mens en die dom
Wat net wil moor en vernietig ... Di's julle natuur
Ek hou my een kant ... Want ek is een kant
Written by Sean Achilleos / 28 December 2020
Louise Sep 2016
det orange skær lægger sig som et yndefuldt lag over alle de opsatte trekanter, der så fint repræsenterer den syvdags-beboende flok af festglade mennesker, der dag for dag snor sig spruttende af glæde rundt mellem de mange stier, der opfyldes af et ocean af humørfyldte druklege

jeg selv er en del af det
og jeg trasker nynnende rundt mellem
lattergaspatroner,
smadrede oliofska flasker
og knækkede stoleben
lad os kalde det en smuk losseplads

der er noget helt specielt ved atmosfæren
også selv når hovederne sumre og pumpes op af den nu velkendte klang af dak
og når man næsten dehydrerende, forstår manglen på alt det vand man burde ha indtaget
i stedet for det euforiserende væske

et sødt pars hænder smelter sammen i aftensolens skær,
lige inden de vender sig mod hinanden og blidt lader deres læber mødes.
Selve romantikken i seancen, bliver desværre hurtigt udvekslet med et råsnaveri
og jeg ryster let på hovedet.
Samtidigt står jeg og overvejer alvoren i den
thomas helmig sang,
mine ører skuer i det fjerne.
Det hele får mig til at tænke over, hvad ægte kærlighed egentlig er

en brummende bas drøner bagfra forbi os, og jeg opfanger i selvsamme sekund, at den gigantiske højtaler, imponerende nok,
er blevet hægtet fast på cyklen med knapt så sparsomme mængder gaffatape
og jeg tænker, at cyklens skarpe sving, har en vis lighed med den roterende fornemmelse af lidelse, der mærkes dybt langs min rygsøjle
om det er fra mit efterhånden propfyldte net med unødvendigt gøgl
eller de mange udmattende gåture på pladsen
er jeg ikke helt klar over

nu ligger jeg herhjemme
ikke i teltet, som jeg nu havde vænnet mig til
men helt hjemme
alt i alt har jeg en mærkværdig fornemmelse af, at skulle vanedanne mig selv ind i roskildes dagsrutiner, hvilket ville være en stor overbelastning for den ellers ganske normale hverdag
men jeg sidder alligevel her, inde i min egen boble og tænker at min modreaktion på savnen, vel umuligt bør være andet end at lede efter de små værdifulde ligheder, der kan genskabe min fascination af roskilde festivalens mange glæder
Brittany Wynn Nov 2014
He stares at the whizzing blades above the bed,
recalling each face during moonlight hours—
civilians twitching with each bullet as they slam
into walls, finally trapped.
His hands, trembling, remain bare
but the faint iron odor sits under his nose, unmoving
since 1967 in Dak Son.

Defeated cries pierce the early morning silence
in the village.  A baby whimpers next to the body
of his mother. Women’s feet pound against gray dirt,
an anthem for the safety of children.

He visits fallen brothers, squinting
at endless rows of gravestones.
The villagers all lie together.
KAT COLE Mar 2017
its like walking in to a dak woom with no lights room and deperately looking for a light swiththat isn't there.
Like chiking on every word you say, terrifie of the resoce that spills through your ****** cracks=ed lips.
I cant close my eyes.
i see nothng at all.
I feel it all.
Everthing in its place that;s not supposed to be there.
walls necorted wall decortate with fist chaped wholesand shatter glass judt lkr nre carpet.
I close my eye and i see his face.
All of the face.
His long beard cover in whiskey, her thin hair, the way she said, "im going to kiss you  like adults do."
It swollows me whole.
It take my minutes, my hours, my days stripped away from me.
I am nothing to be to be cared for,
I am nothing but dissasociated mindlessness.
You stole it all from me.
Every part of me was ripped away like fragibe bir bines.
Drape me in this body bag of satin sheets.
I'm too sick. Like a flu in my mid.
there is not cure.

— The End —