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RALPH NAZARETH (Mangalore, India, 1945).

Pure Indian

Purity is what purity does.

Otherwise everything is a mixture

in ports at the crossroads of rivers.

Synapse confusion

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).

Human nature

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

Secretly touching

Your pockets with unpaid bills

Happy beyond yourself for

Have free party

Universal nature

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).

Morgue caretaker

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.


(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.

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