Death is a state That leaves grief in its wake, Tearing souls from their loved ones. In the sieve of this moment, We must not divide “ours” from “others.” We are dwellers of the jungle. For nature’s tidings— Be it the heart or the hut— We must not roll up the mat. Before me came my father, And before him, my grandfather— Weavers of sacred customs. We have taken every shade of the jungle, Draped ourselves in its colours. The jungle has its customs: Nurture envy and hatred As tenderly as you nurture love. Never to strike a hungry foe. You, a soldier from the enemy’s ranks, Who come to slay my people— Eat your fill before you go, For hunger lies ahead. Do you see these towering peaks, These treacherous ravines? My sons, brave as lions, Know them better than you ever will. They wait for you, Hidden in the trenches. The jungle may show you no way out. My brothers, fierce as tigers, Have mastered the craft of survival. We are dwellers of the jungle. And you, a soldier from the enemy’s ranks, Have come to our land Sit. Eat. Leave with a full stomach. For in the jungle, it is custom Never to strike a hungry foe. I will not let blood Stain the sanctity of my tradition. Whether in war or peace, For nature’s tidings— Be it the heart or the hut— We must not roll up the mat.
Ali Jan Dad is a prominent figure in contemporary Balochi literature. He wields equal command over both the genres of ghazal and nazm. Primarily, he is a poet of love and romance, and his poetry is imbued with a melodious and lyrical finesse. Additionally, he addresses the objective issues of life and the complexities of human existence in a highly artistic manner. So far, two collections of his poetry—Dróháp (The Mirage, 2009) and Róchay Sáheg (The Sun-Shade, 2013) have been published. The translated poem has been taken from his website Kodacha.com and is presented here with his permission.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights of of this poem from the poet.
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The father, who is nearing the end of his life in this world, gave me his winter jacket. A black jacket he once wore with style, on which thick snowflakes piled on cold shoulders, a jacket that warmed itself by the stove in a soup restaurant.
A jacket with mismatched buttons, worn through a life marked by crooked paths, Unable to rest peacefully at the center of the universe, tossing and turning like a migratory bird that had lost its way, wandering through unfamiliar lands, spending sleepless nights in the cold. So that I may spend my winters warmly, so that I may button my life neatly and live upright, my father handed me his jacket, like an offering of regret. In the early winter that chills the heart again and again, wearing my father’s outdated winter jacket, I briefly trace the worn path of his difficult life.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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A translation of Jibananada Das’s Andhar Dekhecche, Tobu Ache (I have seen the dark and yet there is another) from Bengali by Professor Fakrul Alam
Art by Sohana Manzoor
I have seen the dark and yet there is another, greater dark I have known death and yet there is another death awaiting Behind is a whole history existing, but not accessible yet Is that grand narrative—one to whom the plot has another meaning; And to whom the sea sings another tune, and there is a different stirring Of the heart and of issues—and where the mind is illumined uniquely.
Fire, wind, water—primeval gods burst out laughing Spent—once spent—does one end up as pork? Ha! Ha! I burst out laughing— It was as if amidst the loud laughter, The carcass of a huge whale had suddenly surfaced in a dark ocean Making the entire earth become as overpowering as a whale carcass’s stench.
I had thought humans would progress steadily in history’s lap; Instead of playing with machines they had mastered They would mature from accumulated successes. And yet it is the machine that has become a power to reckon with It is Love that has been punctured and power that has prospered With the nuclear bomb—was the increase in knowledge Supposed to result in such a split?
The wisdom that we had gathered over time in life Just isn’t there—what we have is stasis—senility; Surrounded by all sorts of fears, we only have Fatigue and depression. We’ve become self-centered And have enclosed ourselves in shells. We’re too scared To break them and avoid unclean sexual exchanges Carried out in the dark. Oceanic, airy, sunlight soaked, Blood-drenched, death-touched words come and dance Like frightening witches—we are frightened---hide in caves— We would rather disappear—dissolve—disappear in Brahma’s Word. Our two thousand years of learning is thus much!
We keep ourselves busy with commissions—build bases—love the city and the port’s bustle The grass below our boots we consider only grass—nothing else alas— we’ve made the motorcar our prized possession Why do wagtails dance then—fingas and bulbulis flit from forest to forest?
Jibananada Das (1899-1954) was a Bengali writer, who now is named as one of the greats. In his lifetime, he wrote beautiful poetry, novels, essays and more. He believed: “Poetry and life are two different outpouring of the same thing; life as we usually conceive it contains what we normally accept as reality, but the spectacle of this incoherent and disorderly life can satisfy neither the poet’s talent nor the reader’s imagination … poetry does not contain a complete reconstruction of what we call reality; we have entered a new world.”
A grandfather with his young granddaughter boards the train. He pauses briefly in front of the reserved seats, then sits down. As the little girl tries to sit, he explains, "This seat is for grandpas and grandmas."
Beside the seats, there’s a small sign, showing a person with a cane, a person with a round belly, a person on crutches, a person holding a baby.
The subway clanks along, and the child stands in front of the reserved seat section, fiddling with a smartphone.
Sitting on a nearby seat, I almost say, “Sit next to your grandpa,” but hold back— It might sound like encouragement to break the rules. Children should learn to follow public etiquette.
She tries perching on an empty seat, but stands up quickly after a moment, still toying with her phone.
On this sunny spring afternoon, the grandfather, eyes gently closed, sits in the reserved seat, while the spring sunlight shines beside him.
His young granddaughter stands, swaying as she clutches the pole, clanking forward, toward tomorrow.
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Poetry and translation from Italian by Ivan Pozzoni
Ivan Pozzoni
HOTEL ACAPULCO
My emaciated hands continued to write, turning each voice of death into paper… That he has left no will, forgetting to look after what everyone defines as normal business of every human being: office, home, family, the ideal, at last, of a regular life.
Abandoned, back in 2026, labelled as unbalanced, I'm locked in the centre of Milan in Hotel Acapulco, a decrepit hotel, calling upon the dreams of the marginalised, exhausting a lifetime's savings in magazines and meagre meals.
When will the carabinieri burst into the decrepit room of the Hotel Acapulco and find yet another dead man without a will? Who will tell the ordinary story of an old man who lived breaking wind?
Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. Between 2007 and 2018, he published 13 poetry books. He has written 150 volumes, 1000 essays and founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme).
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Story by Sharaf Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
The moment he stepped into his home, he sensed that something was wrong. A strange desolation and silence crept down the walls and doors. His wife, upon seeing him, stood up. Her voice trembled overwhelmed with anxiety. She whispered: “The snow is melting.”
“What?” At the mention of snow, his eyes flared with alarm. He rushed to the room where the snow statue was kept. As usual, it stood there like an impregnable mountain. But now, a tiny teardrop was trickling down its right cheek. The line of the rolling tear seemed to slice the statue into two, like the slash of a sword. He knew that if the melting continued, the statue wouldn’t last much longer. The mere thought of this brought tears to his eyes.
A few years ago, the sea had gifted him that very statue. In those days, he used to visit the sea every evening. He adored the sea and its rising tides, drawn to the depths and the vastness that made him feel immortal. It was that very sense of immortality that pulled him to the shore night after night. Despite the violence of the waves rising and crashing, he continued captivated by them.
One day, as he was lost in watching the rise and fall of tides, he noticed the statue gleaming amidst the water, like a giant pearl. He picked it up, marveling at nature’s artistry. He wondered how such a beautiful statue could exist in the midst of such chaos. Then, a voice echoed from the tides, addressing him: “It’s a gift for you, from me. Every evening you came here and shared my grief. Take this statue home. It will bring you peace, health, and prosperity.”
The wind, tracing lines upon the surface of the ocean, was impressed by the sea’s generosity. It told him that, to help preserve the statue, it would maintain constant climate. When everything becomes kind to someone, time will surely follow suit. Thus, time assured him that it would never bring decay or harm to the statue.
He took the statue and placed it in the finest spot in his home. As the sea and the wind had promised, the statue became a symbol of prosperity and success. Under its shade, his life flourished. But that day, the snow had started to melt!
He knew that this was a sign that his life would soon be stormed with worries and torments. He quickly stepped out of the room. The wind was swirling dust in the courtyard. Like a man who finds comfort in a familiar face during a calamity, he tearfully told the wind that his snow statue was melting.
“Everything perishes in its due time,” the wind replied indifferently.
“But you promised to protect the statue and keep the climate unchanged.”
“I still stand by what I said. It is man who claims the climate is changing. Everything—the sky, the earth, the sea, the wind, the stars, and the moon—remains as it always has. It is only man who changes.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” he blurted out in frustration. “Just tell me how to escape this curse!”
“Everyone must find their own way forward,” the wind replied.
“All roads seem closed to me,” he lamented.
“When all roads appear closed, that’s where a new one opens,” the wind whispered as it blew away, filling the lanes with dust.
To remind time of its promise, he turned to it for answers. The time listened patiently, as if it already knew the situation. After a brief silence, it gently spoke, “In this world, everything changes its shape sooner or later. Even things that seem unchanged eventually undergo some transformation. Your statue has fulfilled its purpose, and this is the law of nature. Everything new will turn old, and when it does, it changes. Your statue may have taken on a new form—one that may not be as appealing to you as it once was—but it will never truly decay.”
“My life now depends on this statue,” he said desperately. “By its virtue, my family has lived in prosperity. Since it arrived in our home, worries and sorrows of life have forgotten our door. Who knows what curse might fall upon us once it’s gone? Its new shape could bring harm and loss to me.”
“Who knows?” the time replied indifferently.
“If this statue continues to melt, my entire house will be ruined. That’s why I don’t want it to change its form.”
“It cannot be stopped from changing now,” the time said firmly.
Feeling disheartened by the time’s response, he wandered, lost in thought, searching for a way out of his dilemma. While he wandered absent mindedly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Startled, he turned to find a tall man dressed in white, standing beside him.
“Hey man, I’ve seen you wandering these lanes for a while now. Is everything okay?”
Like a drowning man catching at a straw, he poured out the entire story. After listening, the tall man said, “You’ve pleaded with the wind and the time, and now you’ve told me, a mere wayfarer, your troubles. But you never approached the one who gifted you the snow statue.”
Startled by the realisation, he sprang to his feet, as if pulled up by ten men, and hurried away without thanking the tall man.
He rushed to the sea and bowed before it, pleading, “My snow statue is melting— please, do something to help me.”
“I cannot do anything,” the sea replied indifferently. “Your statue has run its course. Everything has its lifespan and eventually decays. It is an illness without a cure.”
“The fate of my house depends on this statue. There must be a way to escape this curse!” he cried, his voice filled with frustration and despair.
“The sea doesn’t find a way out for anyone,” the sea responded, its voice now filled with arrogance.
“Then no one should find a way for the sea either,” a voice echoed behind him. He turned and saw the same tall man standing there. The sea seemed embarrassed, lowering its head in shame. After a brief silence, its lips trembled as it muttered: “Go home. The blessing of snow will shower upon everything in your house.”
Overjoyed by these words, he grasped the tall man’s hand gratefully, thanking him. The fire that had been consuming his soul was suddenly soothed by the sea’s promise. He hurried home and rushed straight to the room where the statue stood. The teardrop that had once fallen from the statue had dried. Relieved, he smiled, content that the statue had been spared from decay.
Eager to share the joyful news, he went to find his wife and children. But as he stepped into each room, a strange, eerie air of grief and sorrow greeted him. Everything in his house had turned to snow—the windows, the doors, the curtains, and even his wife and children had transformed into frozen statues of snow. The sea’s words echoed hauntingly in his mind: “Go home. The blessing of snow will shower upon everything in your house.”
His heart shattered. Madness and despair took hold of him as he raced back to the sea. But when he arrived, his worst fears were realised. The sea was gone. In its place stretched a vast, dark desert.
He turned back and wandered through the streets, searching every lane and alley for the man in white. He needed to tell him how the sea had deceived and betrayed him. But after scouring every corner of the city, he found no trace of the man. Overcome with disappointment, he returned to the road leading to the sea, holding on to a faint hope that it might have returned.
When he arrived, there was no sea—only the endless desert stretched out in its place. His body, weak and exhausted, could go no further. He stood there, frozen, like a lifeless piece of wood.
He remained in that spot for years, unmoving. The changing seasons, the winds, and the harsh climates left their marks on him. Over time, his form withered into a blackened log, lying forgotten by the roadside. His body had turned dark — black as a stone, disconnected from the people, the sea, and the snow.
Sharaf Shad
Sharaf Shad is simultaneously a short story writer, poet, translator, and critic. The richness of narrative is one of the defining features of his short stories. Death and identity crises are recurring themes in his works. A collection of his short stories, titled “Safara Dambortagen Rahan” (Journeying Down the Weary Roads), was published by the Institute of Balochistan, Gwadar, in 2020. The story presented here is taken from that collection and is being published with the author’s permission.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
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I once believed that writing poetry was the expression of noble emotions, the realisation of profound thoughts. But I've come to understand with age that this isn't the case.
I once thought that love was as urgent as matters of life and death, residing in a special, noble realm. But now, in my later years, I realise that this was a mistake born of blind faith.
Looking back from the downstream of life, I see that poetry and love resemble the mundane things of daily life, mixed with the noise and dust of the marketplace.
They emerge like sprouts in the midst of weariness, in anxious toil, during sleepless nights of deep contemplation, and on the exhausting commute to home after work, welling up like a hidden spring
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Pond near Springfield by Oscar Grosch (1863–1928). From Public Domain.
Like a breeze, I walk lightly. Sitting in the spring sun, Gazing at the green valley, Life is truly a lonely thing.
Even with yesterday's memories and tomorrow's hopes, Even with friends coming and going and daily business, Living is truly a lonely thing.
All day today, I've been thinking of you. Is my life lonely because I miss you? Is this spring day lonely because you're there?
Like a breeze, I walk aimlessly. Sitting on the grassy field, gazing at the waves in the lake, Even this blossoming season feels lonely
Ihlwha Choi is a South Korean poet. He has published multiple poetry collections, such as Until the Time When Our Love will Flourish, The Color of Time, His Song and The Last Rehearsal.
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Translated from Bengali by Debali Mookerjea-Leonard
Nirendranath Chakraborty (1924 – 2018) was born in united Bengal. A poet, translator and novelist, he was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award for his poem based on the Emperor’s New Clothes in 1974, voicing the need to reacquaint with the innocence of childhood. The same year he was also awarded the Ananda Puraskar. Nirendranth Chakraborty translated Hergé’s comics into Bengali. Calcutta University bestowed on him an honorary Doctor of Literature degree. Amalkanti is one of his well-known poems, again critiquing societal trends.
AMALKANTI*
Amalkanti is my friend, We had been at school together. He came late to class every day, lessons unprepared. When asked verb-declensions, He gazed at the window in such amazement, That we felt sorry for him.
Some of us aspired to be teachers, some, doctors, others, lawyers. Amalkanti didn’t want any of that. He aspired to be sunshine. The blushing sunshine after the rains, in the late-afternoon of cawing crows, Sunshine that lingers on the leaves of the rose-apple and bell fruit Like a momentary smile.
Some of us became teachers, some, doctors, others, lawyers. Amalkanti couldn’t become sunshine. Today, he works in a dark printing press. And he visits me from time to time; Drinks a cup of tea, chats a little, then he says, “I’ll be off.” I see him to the door.
The one among us who is a teacher today, Could easily have been a doctor, The one who aspired to be a doctor, Would have also done well as a lawyer. Somehow, we all got our wishes, all except Amalkanti. Amalkanti couldn’t become sunshine. Musing and musing, musing and musing Upon the sun’s unflawed radiance, He had once aspired to become sunshine.
*(lit. “unflawed radiance”; also used as a name)
A Bengali recitation of Amalakanti by Shamshuzzoha, a poem by Nirendranth Chakraborty.
Debali Mookerjea-Leonard is the Roop Distinguished Professor of English at James Madison University. Together with research and teaching, she also translates Bengali poetry and fiction. Debali has the permission to publish this translation.
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Hafeez Rauf belongs to the generation of the poets who emerged on the literary landscape in the early 2000s. Homelessness, exile, uprootedness and related agony are the recurrent themes of his poetry.
How far will the last sigh of the smoke stretch, Rising from the tires Burning in the distance?
The road lies closed -- No longer offers a passage. Women and children, Youths and elders -- All surrounded by an ever-rising wall of helplessness.
How far can their hands, their voices reach?
Meanwhile, A crumbling wall, In the wall, a decayed door, And the door gazes at the occasional passerby, Stretching its sight as far as it can see.
It watches the deserted roads With the frantic eyes of a man Who, after losing something, searches his pockets in despair.
Where will this caravan of smoke lead? The door just gazes.
From Public Domain
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. Fazal Baloch has the translation rights.
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Borderless 