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The Devil doesn’t let go of us it fights for our souls until the very end. In the final hours of my father’s life an invisible battle was taking place. The White Angel was pulling one arm, and the Dark Angel, the other one, while the three of us were trying to change his wet shirt. PROCESS: No diagnosis Like in a multi-level video game like looking for a hidden treasure with a secret map like you’ve entered Kafka’s Process just one more hallway just one more door just one more counter just one mor
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This poem should be written in English.
This poem should be written in German.
This poem should be written in French,
In Swedish, in Spanish, in my adorable Norwegian,
Maybe in Finnish, Danish and Dutch.
Baltic languages should decide for themselves.
No Belarusian version for the poem,
No Russian version for the poem,
No Ukrainian version for the poem.
The rest are at your choice.
This poem should be written in the languages
Of human rights organizations,
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Elle avance toute seule dans les ruelles d’Istamboul en songeant au festival de Woodstock. Il entre dans une mosquée pour prier avec ferveur. Elle se repose sur un banc dans la place Taksim en se souvenant des manifestations propalestiniennes auxquelles elle a participé aux États-Unis. Il pose son regard sur le ciel en espérant y voir un oiseau,
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LS VIRENT les murs de la géographie s'ouvrir
pas comme le tissu colossal qui tombe soudainement et découvre
et aveugle les mains et aveugle les odeurs des cheveux
mais comme la plainte hachée des conjonctions urbaines
interstices de sol et d'immeubles qui s'étendent
s'amputent, des voies se fendent
provoquent des trébuchements dans les fissures du vent
freinent les successions de plaines liquéfiées torrentielles
heurtent comme étourdit avoir perdu
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Opportunities I never had
Gifts never polished
Materials unavailable
A country that’s blocked
People who are closed
Friends that are shallow
Schools that never taught
Competitions I never wanted
Words that set back
Was it really fair
Are we equal
Pain and suffering you never lived
Days I lost without light
Tears shed every second
Was it really fair
are we equal
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I am still the same boy
who pretends to cover his ears
in the face of the fireworks
That were thrown under his feet by his loved ones and friends
And he had to laugh in their faces
After they exploded in the air next to him
If my life were
Less lead and fires
I would not think of a picture of an explosive belt
Except for the way you turn your bra to your waist
to take it off
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ou didn’t say anything
but he took it as a promise,
he took it as if you’d sailed so far from the shore
that you couldn’t see the way back.
Your life will be there
where you want to own everything,
you give names even to the plants,
and the names feel awkward
like pets’ dresses.
There will be kids as well,
they will cry,
in them, there’s still too much of the sea,
rockeries of the self
haven’t emerged yet out of them,
they are like water’s mirror,
when leaning above them
anybody can see their
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She’s vaster than the Creator,
she has a body.
Mary is struck by the unsettling feeling that
she is the very likeness of herself,
and a feathery nothing
is making a nest for the newly arrived.
And as I stroll towards her in thought,
Mary appears,
with Mary, hand in hand.
Countless voices trimming her horizon;
her sight stretches into the distance.
Until in an unguarded moment, which
might be best compared to pain,
she tears the heavens down.
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You are about four or five
and your father seats you
on a burning stove.
Naked, before the bath.
You excuse his forgetfulness
with your fright and
explain his insults and punches
on account of your cries of pain.
You do not know what hurts more.
And you might think,
maybe forever,
that the man you love the mo
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Elle était toujours accompagnée d'un vieil homme silencieux à la peau maladive, au regard bleu méfiant, et aux cheveux blancs courts. On disait que c’était un investisseur qui cherchait où placer de l'argent. Les associations d'assureurs et d'armateurs, les producteurs de betteraves et les distillateurs, le syndicat des enseignants et la société des architectes, la mairie, tous déposaient à la réception de l'hôtel d
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They traveled in silence. In Tefia's Agricultural and Penal Colony the silence was full of ghosts. Barracks-like buildings enclosied a rectangular courtyard. For twelve years, from 1954 under Franco’s law regarding vagrants and bandits, between eighty and one hundred homosexuals were detained there, sentenced for their sexual orientation. They had performed hard physical labour,
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Dans cet extrait du roman de Mounira Abi Zeid Quand j’étais Dostoïevski qui n’a pas encore été publié, Le Libanais Saber de retour dans son pays natal confie ses malheurs à Lucie qui l’entend raconter son chagrin d’amour à Dubaï.
-Je vais t’écouter ! Vas-y, parle ! dit Lucie.
-Mon histoire d’amour a commencé au début du mois d’Avril quand une jeune employée Anglaise était entrée dans mon bureau à Dubaï.
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The lamps in my grandparents' house are unharmed, they look like in childhood. They grandparents are no more.
I have fir cones from high school, bracelets from my teenage years, the hat I crocheted for my first cat.
I have a broken vase, received from my oldest friend.
I keep an empty bottle of perfume in the window.
I have dried flowers, shards, old scarves, ugly drawings.
Objects help.
They make seem as if there is continuity.
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Yet The Butterfly Cemetery is not an anthology of poetic prose or short stories, a novel, or even— at least not entirely—a book-length essay. It is a basketful of images and recollections whose final section details the genesis of the author's poetry. Mancinelli’s words possess a sober, courageous intimacy which avoids the risk of spiraling in on itself and which, inste
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Dear Akira,
In three days, I’ll be executed. I’ll leave my suitcase for you at the main office––a green suitcase! I hope that you will take possession of what I left inside it. You’ll find some things that might be useful to you and others–and perhaps these letters. You can have the radio that we both bought from the Dubai Mall.
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Il faut dire que Putler avait appris sa leçon, celle qui l’avait laissé hors du Paradis, c’est pourquoi il dit : « J’ai crevé, comme tous les mortels, et maintenant je suis venu voir comment vont les affaires ici-bas. Et bien sûr, tandis que j’étais en haut, sur la terre, je n’ai accompli que de bonnes actions, je n’ai pas procédé à l’expansion des frontières, je n’ai pas renforcé l’état russe, je n’ai envoyé personne à la mort parce que je savais que tout
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-Il est l’homme qui m’a appris à pleurer. En fait, c’est à cause de lui que je me suis habituée à sangloter dès qu’il se met à pleuvoir. J’imite le ciel. Les nuages gris deviennent le reflet de mon âme émue. Les larmes coulent sur mes joues, alors que les gouttelettes d’eau tombent sur le sol. Cette simultanéité m’étonne, me trouble et me charme. Et je pense à lui.
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Ce sont très exactement les mots que l’Abbé Corby dit à son élève, Charles, qui n’était pas intelligent et devint dix ans plus tard Roi des Francs et des Lombards, Empereur d’Occident. Charles se rappelait bien la leçon de l’abbé et un jour, ayant bu à la bouteille du pouvoir toxique, il ordonna qu’on lui amenât son maître, et quand ce dernier fut devant lui, mains et pieds liés et bâillonné, Charles lui demanda : « Estimes-tu toujours que je suis incapable de penser et de ressentir ?
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Bonjour,
mon amour,
tu me conduis comme toujours
J'ai souffert, j'ai commencé une course,
Je tombe comme une miette dans du beurre.
Je n'ai pas pu dormir pendant six jours,
mais tu me conduis, mon amour,
les moussons sont déjà en rupture,
je te vois, mon amour...
Je suis devenue un tournesol à mon tour,
et je trouve le soleil toujours ...
***
La vie a son propre point de vue...
On peut essayer maintenant
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Crepuscular cupules in
pulpy vigils.
The joy of letting
the harrow
level out the soil
of your being.
*
the inebriation
of running yourself dry
belonging
when you find the way out
in others.
*
Led back, drawn off once again
towards your fluvial and insular
solitude
which you struggle to gather
into a single pronoun.
*
You’re no longer your body you
go beyond yourself like a law
whose revocation
you have demanded.
*
Core
in which breaks out
a fire that again takes on
flesh.
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Je parcours la route sans amis, le poids de la solitude de l’au-delà pèse comme une orange lourde sur mes épaules. Mon amie a disparu, son visage se décompose, ses mots s’évaporent, elle ne m’accompagne plus. Je flotte en me demandant si j’ai réellement existé. Le vent emporte un tableau ancien qui représente mon corps. Mes lèvres bougent à peine répétant les mêmes mots que je n’ai pas encore oubliés,
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Rishabh Keswani, le meilleur attaquant de RNA, était prêt à prendre le pénalty pour les champions en titre. Rishabh avait déjà marqué plus de buts que tous les autres dans le tournoi. « Allez, Rishabh! » Allez, Rishabh! Rishabh a ébouriffé sa coiffure normalement élégante et peignée, maintenant ruinée par la sueur, et a couru jusqu’à la balle.
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Since I moved abroad, home has stopped being tied to a location, to a tight and simple definition. To be fair, I am not sure if it ever was like that for me, even simply by virtue of having family history in several parts of my native Bulgaria. At the moment, home feels like the place/moment where I love and am loved, where I can be vulnerable, where I can do what I enjoy doing and what I find purpose in (both professionally and personally).
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The Butterfly Cemetery is a composite book, which collects more than ten years of writing. It is an unexpected book, which took shape all of a sudden, thanks to this long time period. The same thing happened to me as a child when I would play with butterflies: I would make a tomb of white stones for one butterfly, then another tomb. . . and suddenly I realized that I had put together a small cemetery. It is a special book because it was born first in English.
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black banners at sunrise black banners at sunset
black on black are our days and nights
black cars and black-clad men with dark machine guns
riding on the back of black tanks and pickups
firing aimlessly into the darkened sky as if in a bleak wedding
driving on roads lined with rotting corpses
singing a capella like a good choir
stroking cats and taking selfies
black phantoms emerging from the dead of the night
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Elle a disparu, elle n’est plus là. Je me demande si j’ai été l’unique témoin d’un miracle diabolique qui m’a permis de vivre l’expérience la plus sensuelle de ma vie. Incapable de trouver une explication à ce phénomène bizarre, je me hâte de revenir chez moi, je m’esseule dans ma chambre, je rêve.
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And as an old soldier,
Like an ex-warrior in the plains, the mountains and the marches,
I have the right, after the war has left me to breathe without a reason for more other years.
I have the right,
To choose those snowy hills to lie down under them with an mysterious safety and happiness.
Actually, things were not that worse,
Life in my homeland was a joyful journey, sometimes,
And a hard one in others.
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As a little saint floats in the unholy land
of the people with the pretended past,
demons are too scared to walk this path...
but to saint it’s home sweet home
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Magic and witchcraft
despair is here to last
and its judgment day everyday
to those who can’t last
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An innocent girl indeed
but pure is too naïve
you can’t win a demon race
if you don’t sell your soul away
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But not to be mistaken my friend
those people are hidden
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Anne, 43: «Personal hygiene is something fundamental in the man I am looking for. In addition, if you are classless or your look is very simple, don’t make me waste my time, please». Did you say ‘time’, Anita? But time is the only thing we have left now, girl. If you want to find that fashionable and spotless man you are looking for you need to adapt to the new circumstances, darling.
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Je suis à la fois croyant, athée, agnostique, nul et superbe. Je suis le père des bâtards à mille racines, l’amant d’une Aphrodite cosmique dont le talent charme les habitants des continents multiples, le fils d’une mère au corps luxurieux qui s’étend de la mer jusqu’au sommet des Monts enneigés. Je forge mon destin à ma guise, je transgresse toutes les limites. J’existe, donc je résiste.
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