FeaturedThe teenager who couldn’t translate his feelings

The teenager who couldn’t translate his feelings

A foreign teenager — stepping into unknown territory?

Letters & Poetry

Opening the door carefully, Amir came in, back from his late soccer training. His younger brothers were already sleeping. Well, not all of them; Malik’s bed was empty. That rascal! Out in the night again! After all those reprimands, he does not learn how to behave. He just feels and does whatever he pleases. And that isn’t proper. Not for this family.

The problem is: Malik has become a teenager here, in this country where they arrived a year ago. Always hanging around with all those other mischievous, spoilt guys. And it is obvious that their beloved mom is missing. Poor mom, she passed away when Amir, the elder, was just thirteen. And Malik, always the black sheep, is badly needing her. He is so immature…

Amir is not that mature, either. But at least he is conscious enough. And that hurts him a lot. Because he knows how he…

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Everything we were

Everything we were

Letters & Poetry

Of the earthquake we were, I remained as the crevice.


With that sound cracking me from inside.

Although maybe it were my ribs while breathing.

Of the storm we were, I remained as the drop,

that became big like a pond, that nobody knew,

but that was deeper and not just a reflection.

Of the hurricane we were, I remained as the calm,

looking at all that disaster we caused to each other,

trying to unite planks from different woods,

dreaming everything as before,

but please, tell me: when did the hurricanes

come back

to order the chaos

they spitted on their way?

Of the time we were, I remained as the today.

Giving you a yesterday that trembled us,

that rained us, that flew us,

that left us without a tomorrow but did not kill us.

By: Mabeletras (Venezuela)

Author of Letras & Poesía

Translated from Todo lo…

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Letters & Poetry

So near, yet so far,
I can’t understand
if I see a reflection
or if you are under my skin.

Maybe it’s a mirror
or it’s what I want to see.
It might be so complex,
but that’s how it should be.

I intertwine my course
hoping to gain access.
I let my hope guide me
and then I observe:

A lighthouse of advice
in the mid of many sketches,
trying to get to shore
like a cox with my memories.

By: Mai Murialdo (Uruguay)

Author of Letras & Poesía

Translated from Rumbo by Luca Arnaldo

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2018: A Sun is Born

A wonderful painting from a Uruguayan artist, Carlos Páez Vilaró, as a symbol of best wishes for this brand-new year. From our sister project Blogdefabio.com:

El blog de Fabio

Sol de Páez Vilaró

Ya faltan pocas horas para que fenezca el viejo año. En un rato nacerá el nuevo sol.

Fenecer, nacer… van de la mano. Esta pintura de Carlos Páez Vilaró ya no existe (al menos, eso dicen). Pero su genio creativo explota y vibra. Desborda como el radiante sol del Este oriental.

Estaré ausente las próximas semanas. Que el calor y las buenas ondas de este sol les lleguen a todos, en todos los rincones del orbe.

Nos leemos pronto. ¡Feliz y cálido 2018!

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Let’s help Sushant fund his project!


This campaign is to fundraise for Sushant Gautam’s travel expenses to attend CGI University 2017 event happening this October in Boston for his commitment to play a role in his community to improve sanitation and mensural health conditions of girls in Nepal. The fund will be used to fund his airplane tickets and accommodation.

Read more clicking here.




Letters & Poetry

Originally posted in Spanish on our site Letras & Poesía

Like a fleeting blow that knocks your temples,
the moment disappears just far away,
unreachable, unreal, preterite tense.

Unyielding reason that lives so quickly,
so breathless as a frigid kiss
that floods your soul for a second.

That shade of voice is gone,
that caress bestowed on the air,
that soothing sound of the afternoon
and the dreamy dawn of your eyes.

That light staging is already gone,
trying to pursue your shadow,
that trail of sleeping silence,
at the hasty brush of your fingers.

Useless clock that marks your life,
throwing sand from thought,
measuring smiles and dripping tears,
looks for pleasure of furtive memory
running in pursuit of the recalls.

Outmoded scent of withered flower,
farewell on the path of no return,
in the train of spilled life,
through stations of forgotten dreams.

Everything arrives, yet goes away,

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Letters & Poetry

“Give me some breath

I’m sinking down,

falling apart traumas rise,

baffled originates out carving

a hole inside my heart

don’t dig me in

please give me your hand,

Take me out of it…..

leave me alone…

boo, boo boom..

“one more life

“Dip drop” Died”.

Symptoms suffered

by the dogma of depression,

Dominant & Drug.

By Chirayu 

Read more texts by this author

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