Book of Arda Viraf, Part II, Chapter 3 - Anonymous

And the soul of Viraf went, from the body, to the Chinwad bridge of Chakat-i-Daitik, 

and came back the seventh day, and went into the body. 

Viraf rose up, as if he arose from a pleasant sleep, thinking of Vohuman and joyful.

Magic Suitcase - Shahnaz A'lami

I took with me a suitcase,

light, very light,

Two or three sets of baby clothes,

A white georgette dress,

An indistinct photograph of my mother,

wearing a headdress,

Alone? - Mary Electa Adams

The sunlight through the open door

Comes in, and streams along the floor,

The slant rays of a falling August sun

Well-nigh throughout its sultry circuit run;

And hushed is every sound of breeze or leaf or bird,

Save the low trill of insects, past the lattice heard,

        In the dry grass

        As the hours pass.

Kathmandu - Pushpa Ratna Tuladhar

Every morning in my bathroom, 

I submerge myself in meditation, 

cleanse my bowels

and attain fresh and anew.

I flush out all the dirt and dust

through the drainage

to the distant flowing river.

My darling, we sat together - Heinrich Heine

My darling, we sat together,

We two, in our frail boat;

The night was calm o'er the wide sea

Whereon we were afloat.

 

those who stitch - Tikum Azonga

I've done stitching all my life

I've stitched maths and even Einstein

Africa - Albert Chitsanzo

Dangling the follies of crossfire

Casting the mystery of presidential elections

An Address to the River of Creation - Anonymous

O thou River, who didst create all things, 

When the great gods dug thee out, 

They set prosperity upon thy banks, 

The Quest for Joy in a Modern World - Taiwo Hassan

these days, i’m a china on the tip of a cupboard,

one push away from breaking, peace in pieces.

i see the shattered shards already, a vessel after vertigo,

that split second of silence, i perceive the flames in me.

Offspring - Vizma Belševica

In this dream, I’m the bad mother sent for,

my words: unruly bairns,

hanked to my skirts, mouths blared shut

except for the babby,

my favourite, his trembling lips stammer

submission while his milk teeth cut a rage

that gnaws his tongue to a silence

that moves me to speak: