By: Paweł Markiewicz the liberty is the golden bosoma freedom – a diamond-like leaflet-homean eagle needs also a bit libertyI want to live in the freedom-beauty the freedom – silvern periods dreamy birdsIt is furthermore star from rubiesthere are smaragdine…

By: Itay Eisinger I didn’t knowWe would return to EuropeLike this:With the blissOf burgundy passportsAnd the abyssthe IsraeliPolitical griefHas left usWith.Where Id wasNow Berlin is.Where fascism was —Fascism was also firstTo leave.In Berlin, by a pub’s wallWe saw the anarchistmist…

By: Jordan Almond The wind moved one strand of hairAcross her face at a time.Grains of red sand fly over the earth,Flitting through the hot air.Vast. Ancient.She lay spread over the land eyes to the sky.Heart open.One grain of sand…

By: Bob Kalkreuter She lay on the floor beside the sofa, the old dog, white fur grizzled with yellow, drowsing where the window-heated sunlight spilled warm and familiar. Her breath came in rattles, like she was practicing for death. Maybe…

By Gaither Stewart In times past, the German sculptor, Paul Schatz, related his experience at the woodcarving school in Warmbrunn in north-east Germany where accomplished students were finally allowed to copy a statue. Schatz chose a medieval Mater Dolorosa. After…

By: Linda M Crate i couldn’t be your dreamyou waltzed in,killing my dreams;insisting i be someonewho i wasn’tto fit your aesthetic ofwhat a woman should be— i refused,clinging stubbornly to the realityof me rather than yourill-conceived and selfish dream where…

By: Bruce Levine Jason picked up his pencil for probably the hundredth time that day and put it back down every time. It wasn’t a case of writer’s block because each time he picked up his pencil he wrote something;…

By: Ram Govardhan “No country other than India, and no religion other than Hinduism could have produced a Gandhi.” This assertion, by a London newspaper, echoes the romantic view of the world that India was always a land of ahimsa….

By Charlotte Pregnolato Harry sits expectantly at the table. Lights are low, candles lit, and “Fool’s Rush In” by Elvis, still Harry’s favorite, plays softly. He smiles as he draws his napkin from under his fork and places it on…

By Chitra Gopalakrishnan I stumble upon the goat woman in the ghost-grey rhythm of the August rain. This happens on the deserted Mandi road, near Juanapur village, a kilometer away from my home on the outskirts of New Delhi. I…