RALPH NAZARETH (Mangalore, India, 1945).
Purity is what purity does.
Otherwise everything is a mixture
in ports at the crossroads of rivers.
Enzymes mixed like saliva
they are exchanged between races.
Sperm and egg mix
in amniotic sleep regardless of colors.
Purity is what death does
while resting in a state without division.
Even sworn enemies come
to bring flower crowns
although some of the cocoons let escape
the blood of your clan.
It is with some difficulty
I say these words:
I am Indian
and I wish to be seen as such
compound and decomposed
in the meeting and departure of the worlds.
TERGEL KHULGANAI (Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, 1971).
Focus only on your own image
In a photo in company
Loving her alone, when your own image seems perfect
It doesn't matter if the others seem cross-eyed
The image is perfect as long as your own image is
This is human nature
You make a toast and have a good time
Your friend by your side pays the bill
You enjoy that moment in silence
Your pockets with unpaid bills
Happy beyond yourself for
Have free party
of us humans ...
Someone is miserable, violated and hurt
Looking for you as a consolation just having you to
Leave an unimportant advice to ignore everything
But when he comes home
All your spiky hair
Apparently because your problems are the worst
Human nature is strange
Oh black; gray, white and red
So many remarkable colors of human nature
Something that cannot be touched, taken, or softened
Such is human nature ...
oh, the nature of men.
HANI NADEEM (Syria, 1972).
What do you think someone thinks of them on the shores of this earth?
_ The morgue guard in a civil war.
_ A sailor's wife who beautifies herself every night for her husband who was eaten by seashells two summers ago
_ A father who only left his daughter half a smile in a painting hanging on the wall, and what the residents of the neighborhood think of him.
_ The lighthouse keeper for some ships that never arrive.
_ The undertaker in a country sick with leprosy.
Who cares that a poet plunges his text into his sorrows, hanging his corpse in his hells?
For the ships that do not return,
sailors who fish ate the tattoos on his forearms,
The poem marches on solid ground.
ANTONIO SANTOS MENOR
(Pontavedra, Galicia, Spain, 1943).
I am Eros ... Hold me and hold me
and take my skin as smooth
that can remind you of a caress ...
Here ... at this exact point in the blood
flowing through my fingers in touch,
I touch you and I faint from pleasures ...
I am Eros ... overwhelming, unfaithful,
restless traveler of all mysteries
of your body ... embrace me and possess me,
now that my epidermis is firm ...
I am Eros ... overwhelmed, implacable,
vital, lover of the nights that are offered
to all my wishes ... Tour me
and you will feel a strong gallop
through the deep abyss of your sex.
MARÍA SOLÍS MUNUERA (Madrid, Spain, 1976).
A man on the run
I want a benevolent place: the fish market in Oslo. I want to arrive at night, of the wood, the suit, the black skin, with the missing crew and the captain tied to the helms. On the tables, the lamps cover the false melancholy of the fish with tungsten. Norwegians, protein-rich, soar. The children wear the straw hats and rings. I'll buy the blonde hair bottle. Like them, I want to let the bees live. Like them, I want
the yellow circle with the black circle. The cell when the day is over. Tired of killing having tried it. The royal protection and tipping the bottle and spilling the honey on the false melancholy of the fish. Luxury and old age have golden tones. In hair, yellow is the next step from white. He
says what there is: political asylum. Wicker baskets for refugees. Cereals. Fish crates for sale with the price. Scale-shaped bottles. There are tennis balls. There are citrus. There is soup. Optimism. Theater people. Light. Mustard grains. There is a standard of living. There are women who give birth like queens. Almost the record for deaths from abuse. He says.
VERÓNICA ARANDA (Madrid, Spain, 1982).
I consulted the maps
with a rain forest on the retina,
and left his mark
on the shutters.
If the compasses failed,
if in a burning of lime the light blinded him,
she took the risk of getting trapped
in a foreign city.