Canada, by Emily Pauline Johnson

Néznélek,

Próbálok úriember maradni,

de a tekintetemnek néha saját tervei vannak.

Látlak,

Nem bámullak...

csak hosszabb ideig csodálom ugyanazt a részletet.

Két gyönyörű melleddel támadsz,

Két érvvel érkeztél a vitába,

ok i think obs is in cofront because ive lowk lost my emotions but ill answer anyway

i was trying to come up with a name and the only thing that was coming to mind was like

an image of a rope

so i was like

okay i'm rope for now

and then i liked it too much

so i'm rope now

Parched

By Raziq Roien

​Translated from the Farsi by Farhad Azad

Our hands, how distant,

distant

How bare the gardens of our love,

naked

Without you in my thoughts—oh, unattainable one—

even more parched than before

sleeping like a droplet in the throat of the vine

I have surrendered my heart to the earth’s warm hope,

I arrive so that..

I arrive so your earth, newly blossomed and green—

—like the devout hush of morning solitude—

I may bring an offering of prayer

and our hands, which, caressed by passing cloud and wind,

in the court of nature

have wept with rain-like tears

and love’s four seasons, rooted in Balkh—

—they have bound to every horizon

high upon Ahriman’s throne*, God...

may call out to you,

may He make it so

Ah, oh earth, more patient than patience!

you have grown heavy with sorrow for my sake

you have grown heavy with sorrow for your own

— Raziq Roien

Sofia, April 1986

​

* throne of Ahriman

In the Zoroastrian faith, which originated in Balkh, the spirit of absolute evil and darkness is Ahriman (اهرمن). The poet, himself a native of Balkh, sees his world flipped upside down, with forces of malice placing God upon the throne of darkness. Like his fellow Balkhi contemporary, Wasef Bakhtari (1943-2023), Roien masterfully revives pre-Islamic imagery and ancient mythologies as symbols in his poetry—a deliberate reclaiming of a rich, historical past that was suppressed for generations under rigid religious censorship.

​

An Introduction to the Poem

I recently discovered this touching poem by Raziq Roien (b. 1950), published in the September/October 1988 issue of the Kabul-based magazine Sabawoon. Written in 1986 while he was pursuing his PhD abroad in Sofia, Bulgaria, the poem offers a telling gaze into his homeland from afar.

He evokes the image of a parched garden—his beloved country—and expresses his readiness to return, fully aware that the raging conflict has left even nature itself—in the form of passing clouds—mourning in sympathy.

For me, the most arresting part of the poem is its unsettling imagery of darkness and evil usurping the throne of goodness and light, as forces of war have taken over the land, turning everything upside down.

It is as if Roien were peeking into the future, foreseeing a time when the malice overtaking his homeland would become so absolute that it would govern all, leaving the spirit of virtue dethroned. But he is hopeful that virtue may prevail as it calls to the people of his homeland.

He closes the poem on a message of deep, cyclical grief: a silent witness to a land made sorrowful by its people's suffering, leaving the soil to mourn itself.

— Farhad Azad, Spring 2026 | بهار ۱۴۰۵

When I let go of life. Life grabbed me and made things right. When I felt I couldn’t go any further. Life lifted me over impossible hurdles. Life showed me full and empty bottles. Life showed me two roads and one of them I had to follow. Sober and Clean or sideways with a lean. Either way life has a way of showing you how to Jump Thru Darkness if you want. Cause addictions will be on you like the…

Il silenzio ha una sua voce la voce del silenzio,ci sono pensieri ed emozionivibrazioni e sensazioniche solo nel silenzio si possono sentireudireassaporare.la voce del silenzio,può essere assordante o silentecome acqua che zampilla dalla sorgenteo il tacito specchio di mareche riflette ora le albe ora i tramonti.la voce del silenzioè come raggi di sole sulla pelle,senza rumore e chiassoriscalda…

Won't have to take up anymore of the limited soul data or conversation currency we got left while we're here.