The Pit of Words
Words, overgrown and wild,
sprout from our lips.
They weigh heavy with silences
and with fake titles
on silver discs.
Poets?
Or perhaps mere builders
of already built homes?
Pre-fabricated, free of charge,
out-of-place constructions,
they unravel their roots.
Fraudulent bricks, words—
colorless, frozen,
lacking assembly or meaning.
But in the narrow commands
of matter,
they freeze.
And we?
With crumbs of pride,
we satisfy
the hunger of eternity.
But words
know.
They are like the pit of an ancient olive tree;
even if you bury them
in barren soil
or strike them with winds of arrogance,
they carry the memory of the earth that bore them.
And when time ripens,
they will root again
and find their place.
Elli Lagiou
Το Κουκούτσι των Λέξεων
Λέξεις χορταριασμένες
στα χείλη μας φυτρώνουν.
Βαραίνουν από σιωπές
κι από ψευτοτίτλους
σε δίσκους αργυρούς.
Ποιητές;
Ή μήπως μόνον χτίστες
ειδή χτισμένων σπιτιών;
Προκατασκευασμένα δωρεάν,
ατέριαστα χτίσματα,
ξηλώνουν τη ρίζα τους.
Σαθρά τούβλα οι λέξεις,
άχρωμες, παγωμένες,
χωρίς συναρμολόγηση και ουσία.
Μα στα στενά κελεύσματα
της ύλης,
παγώνουν.
Κι εμείς;
Με ψίχουλα έπαρσης
χορταίνουμε
την πείνα της αιωνιότητας.
Μα οι λέξεις
ξέρουν.
Είναι σαν το κουκούτσι μιας αρχαίας ελιάς·
ακόμα κι αν τις θάψεις
σε άγονη γη
ή τις χτυπήσεις με ανέμους αλαζονείας,
θυμούνται το χώμα που τις γέννησε.
Κι όταν ο χρόνος ωριμάσει,
θα ριζώσουν ξανά
και θα βρουν τη θέση τους
Fijet e Kujtesës Albanian
Fijet e kujtesës sime dridhen,
duke shkaktuar trazira në të gjithë qenien time
për zhurmën e panjohur
dhe se ku mund të arrijë rruga
e këtij tingulli
duke mos mundur të ofroj ndonjë harmonizim.
Dhe fijet vazhdojnë
të dërgojnë kalimtarët e kujtimeve.
Ku shkuan: vallë, ku shkojnë kur humbasin?
Disa herë rrallë më dhembin
dhe kthehen përsëri normale,
duke krijuar tinguj lumturie,
si ende mund të krijojnë
muzikën e shpirtit tim, të pastër dhe të pandryshuar,
në mënyrë që të dëgjohet me gëzim
nga universi i befasive.
Magic book with pages transforming into birds
ΧΟΡΔΈΣ ΜΝΉΜΗΣ Greece Έλλη Λάγιου
Οι χορδές της μνήμης μου τραντάζουν,
προκαλώντας αναταραχή σε όλο μου το είναι
για τον άγνωστο θόρυβο
και το πού μπορεί να φτάσει ο δρόμος
αυτόύ του ήχου
μη μπορώντας να προσφέρω κουρδισμό.
Και οι χορδές συνεχίζουν
να στέλνουν αναβάτες τις μνήμες .
Πού πήγαν.: Άραγε, που πάνε όταν χάνονται;
Μερικές φορές αραιά με πονούν
και ξαναγυρίζουν κανονικές,
φτιάχνοντας ήχους ευτυχίας,
πώς ακόμα μπορούν να συνθέσουν
μουσική της ψυχής μου, γνήσια και ατόφια,
ώστε να ακουστεί χαρούμενη
από το σύμπαν των εκπλήξεων.
Grecia Elli Lagiou
UN ABBRACCIO AI BAMBINI
Gandhi ha detto,
il giorno in cui il potere dell’amore vincerà l’amore del potere,
il mondo conoscerà la pace.
Nel vento, le corde dolenti,
si allontanano, farfalle bianche,
con le ali insanguinate e stropicciate.
Sono anime di bambini, che piangono a dirotto.
Al centro delle viscere della terra,
arrivano urla di dolore e agonia.
Quale la colpa dei bambini della Palestina?
Ereditano guerre, senza pace.
Respirano fumo e terra macchiata di sangue,
e cercano ancora i loro genitori.
Vivono nel dolore, nelle guerre, nella condizione di orfano,
senza una nazione, in caravans di rifugiati.
Un raggio di luce, chiedono solo pace.
I canti feriti, indifesi, offesi.
Che spiegazione dare? C’è umanità?
Vogliono amore, affetto e un abbraccio.
I loro occhi parlano disperatamente,
Dagli abissi delle loro anime, un grido di agonia.
Hanno il cuore spezzato, vogliono che i bambini vivano,
che volino in alto, con le ali della libertà.
Lontano dalle spine della disumanità,
finché l’umanità stilla, l’amore…
(translation by Ivan Pozzoni, the man of steel, the white tiger of the Himalayas)
Md. Sadiqur Rahman Rumen 
Oana Noorani Senior Editor
Taghrid BouMerhi co-Editor
Co-Editor Priyanka Neogi
Co-Editor :
Syed Ayesh Miah.
Editor:
Congregation Adviser:
SHAH MD. ATIQUE KAMALI,
YAHYA AZEROGLU,
CHARY GUMETA,
TASNEEM HOSSAIN,
ILEANA PASCU.
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