A dream steps in

By Alexandria Somirs

A dream steps in,
And breathes right out,

Once inside, the haze spills over,

It pulls me in, like a thunder roll.

I run, I charge

I grab what clothes,

To hold me over.

From the fire that hides just under,

From the ice that soars just over,

From the danger that still sleeps in,

From the day that still lies by.

I grow weary from breathing in,

Stepping in, is a face that smiles,

But it’s a mask that day slips on.

And it’s the night that takes it off.

A dream steps in,
And breaths right out.

Painting by Salvador Dalí

How can I pick the days of anger out of a field of happiness?

By Alexandria Somirs

Animosity’s repression dug a hole,

 I’m quite sure,

 And soon there, took residence, a contentable mole.

He lived there quite happily,

The earth above pounded with distracted footsteps,

Too quick, too impatient to let live small similes.

And down below his dependable nose,

He felt the humid silence, from where questions were posed.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of anger?”

Animosity answered, “the seeds of which were buried the deepest,

The ones least likely to flower,

The ones most likely to sour,

And spoil the earth of their weeded source,

And set the field afire with their selfish course.”

Satisfied, the mole posed another question.

“Of all the seeds that were bedded,

Of which were of happiness?”

Animosity answered, “The seeds that lie on the surface, the ones I’ve not bedded,

The ones least likely to stay content in the earth and lie,

The ones most likely to shoot up to the sky,

The ones that bloom with the sun,

And feel lighter than an elephant ton.

Photo by Alexandria Somirs

Notes from Spring

By Alexandria Somirs

For me I’m very confused of what to be.

I lay in wake of Winter’s passiveness.

She kissed me goodnight, before Autumn took flight.

I fell away while Winter stayed.

But waking now, Winter has cast her ice on me.

I try to warm her up to me, but she revolts with passive aggressiveness.

The more I wake, the less I see of her.

I walk, I run, I scour the lands until Winter slips

Away from me.

Photo by Alexandria Somirs


By Fabiano Soares

I was born in 1929 in Dresden,

As I grew older, my parents were rebuilding the country

Next to millions of others survivors and migrants

Skins of all shades, religions of all liturgies…

And we use to hear on the radio:


– We need to save our nation – they said.

– We need to clean our nation. – And that sounded so right.

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