"REVISITING THE OLD HOME" There are still traces of the broken walls, Now overgrown with moss, The opening where the door once stood - And an overpowering sense of loss. But most of all, there's silence, Not even blackbirds sing, What happened to the laughter? In my head, I still hear it ring. My footsteps on this wild grass place, Seem to disturb the settled gloom, As if it was a sacrilege - And I had trodden on its tomb. © John Anthony Fingleton (Lost Viking) Paraguay

"MY FALLEN CAMELLIAS..." Beside the walkway to my door, I can hear my fallen Camellias whispering my name, chocked in tears, and I cry inside... I pause despondent, at that sight, and bend to move them to softer beds of grass... while waving goodbye... For one last time... Remembering how gloriously they shined in the sun not long ago. They look beautiful, still, even as they fade, to my grieving eyes... Yes, I'm a believer... that they can sense and respond in kind, in their special way... just as people do... I feel it in my heart... Our flowers are us... When one falls, a part of us dies and bites the dust... Only to be resurrected in newness and hope... And, as life moves on, so do we... Even in stillness, without a hitch... Only love endures eternal past the end... © Nasser Goudarzi USA

March 2025 Editor's Choice featuring Gabriel S. Weah "MASK OF A BROKEN KID" I have a mother, A beautiful mother, Gifted by God, yet burdened by fate. Around her neck, she wears A necklace of injustice, Her lips glossed with the shade of despair. When the wind blows, It carries the scent of her anguish. Her head rests in the West, Yet her face is masked with oppression. At times, I cry - But soon, I swallow the pain and move on. I have a mother, A beautiful mother, painted with sorrow. In broad daylight, she pleads for mercy. When granted a fraction of her request, The wolves feast upon it, Yet she holds onto hope, Believing more will come. As a child, I question my existence. Darkness triumphs where light should dwell. Hunger greets me in a place of nourishment. I know I have a mother - A once-glowing soul, now faded. And when fortune smiles upon her, She drifts away, singing: "Bobonabo...bo..." © Gabriel S. Weah Liberia

Gloria Magallanes-Loeb "UNCERTAINTY" The blood moon, eerie yet with a mystic glow Shrouded in shadows above a celestial show Depicting many tat of sorrow and pain What can humanity refute, see and gain? Let the red embers flicker in purest form Aware of chaos, revolt, destruction norms Behold, the nimbus color of deepest red Showing a picturesque scenery that led What did the blood moon try to tell? Like a breeze swaying off leaves that fell On an extraordinary spring night awaiting awe A moment facing your destiny with a gasp, ahh... Looking above the crimson skies of dread Braving fogginess wraps around your head Reflecting our life's journey of dreams Drift along in darkness crossing a stream Awash your fears, burdens in mind flow Dear blood moon, are you my friend or foe? © Gloria Magallanes-Loeb "TRIBUTE TO WOMAN'S DAY" She awakens at early dawn from the corners of stillness Ready to spring forward to take on challenges of daily life A strength she has developed within her deepest core Let no one break her into pieces for she's solid like stone Her existence in the lives of others is true resilience Rising above like a mother eagle over the mountains All her failures, are now signs of intelligence Emerging like a lotus flower that floats above mud © Gloria Magallanes-Loeb USA

The poet, as the life force, what fuels their muse, and the inspiration of their poems. "WHY I WRITE?" They say You are different How am I different, I have not a clue Pain comes to everyone born as a woman How we look at things, the nature of it all Our survival depends Yes, I am different, I am distinctive I am fire, I am water, I am heart Everything is woven into one I carry Words that are fierce and pierce your heart Subdued and benumbed into a sea of seahorses Do not define, by what you see or by what you hear Stories are brought by breeze, gone by the wind Rather you see me as me You accept me as me A scroll writer from the ancient Anubis Now scattered to earth by Brahma Then will you know whether I'm poles apart. © SHEILA ANN PACKIRNATHAN Malaysia ****** THE RED ROSE Like green leaves we live in prime spring, the nightingales in boughs often sing, I saw a rose blooming in March, With a smile, my heart wishes to catch, Young, beautiful, active in a red dress, I know her name has a great bless! Eyes are dancers an messengers, She is as a queen among the flowers, With inflaming glances, she has bright beam, As a piper in a soft poppy dream I whisper. priestly words in tranquil tempest, The bee sat proudly on her breast, I sent my sighs to carry the bee away, Fears, tears, groans with me in a way, Like a diamond, full of purity Smile is the mark of her beauty. Her light is a sweet harbinger of love Cherry lips, whiter than lily dove. A heart is a temple of delight, A face is a perfumed light, Her eyes and lips, a passionate anthem To my temple, the smile is the open sesame. Tunes are quiet with the tossing grass, The longest lie I have with a blushing lass. Blissful union with her sweet spirit, Splendor, melody, and little sunlit Shake a shoulder, my eyes fast shine, I evince the sore story with the line. Like a shadow, dreams are fast done, I feel sad when the rose is gone! © AHMED YASIR DHAIN Iraq ****** CONSUMING PASSION OF A POET When the fervor was restricted to an unnamed flow When the imprisoned soul lost its way in a world of sorrows, When an ardent love didn't find its heartfelt soul, When a fiercely energetic aura got lost in an apathetic air, When a melodramatic intensity was chained by a phlegmatic being, That lost emotion became a poet in me! When an amorous strength became cold, When a hot-blooded stamina was cursed by a passionless person, When an aroused love became steamy, When sensual lines turned into sizzling eagerness, When a torrid drama couldn't withstand the zealous Wave during melodrama, That mercurial soul became a poet in me!! ©SONAL RAO India ****** I AM POETRY Where would you find me? In the vagaries of love, Or the vicissitudes of war, Or, all that which lies in between? The rising of the sun, And the setting of the moon And all those moments that lie in between? In the waking of the consciousness, and the lulling into sleep, And all those junctures that fall in between? The harshness of reality The gossamer of dreams And all that matter, which lies in between? The exactitude of words, And the cloudiness of thoughts, And all the bits of psyche that lie in between? The euphoria of arrivals, And the anguish of departures, And all those emotions that lie in between. ©SHWETA SAHAI India ****** Our muse fans the flame, If ink runs dry today, We shall write with our blood. © USMAN ABDULKARIM Nigeria ****** BRIDGE OF WORDS Between the shores of difference, Where conflict's waters churn, A bridge of verse extends its planks For those who wish to learn. Each stanza forms a steppingstone Across the troubled tide, Each metaphor a handrail firm To guide us side by side. In rhythm's gentle constancy We find a common beat, Where enemies might pause to hear Their mirrored hearts compete. For poetry speaks languages That borders cannot claim, It weaves through walls and barricades With whispers soft as rain. Through sonnets, ghazals, haiku, psalms - Our shared humanity Flows free of doctrine, creed, or land In pure simplicity. So let us build with careful words These bridges, arch by arch, That strangers might become as friends As toward each other march. For peace is not the absence of Our differences displayed, But rather how we honor them In verses newly made. © CONCETTA PIPIA U.S. ****** Beloved Bard On this day let verses rise high like dawn-lit, that hue in the skies. Let your ink traverse both mountain and valley. Let words soar like a kite, like raindrop sprinkles. Let the whispers echo in the jungle of soul. Let it find time and place in sorrow or delight. Let inks sail across, across the sea of life. Let its rhyme relive pain. Let its rhythm awake, numb. © NYOK M. MARENG Sudan ****** A POET'S QUILL My quill writes as my mind thinks Words come into focus as it goes Dictating ideas, thoughts, quotes Expanding the scope of daily life Experiences we've dealt nonstop A shooting, crash, birth, war, death A yo-yo effect that grips us all Into a paradox scheme in writing Embracing truth and compassion My quill depicts the emotion of love How it affects human nature relationships The connection between family and loved ones Interactions among people we barely know Those we work every day at a busy place Familiar faces on the bus transit or subway My quill moves towards our Mother Nature The beautiful and majestic sun and flowers Celestial heavenly bodies and oceanic waters Thunderous skies, pitter patter of raindrops Hailstorms, winter snow pileups along the roads Atmospheric deluge, tornadoes, earthquakes My quill continues to extend to wildfires Destroying acres of land, habitat sanctuaries Creatures big and small go extinct, dying Affecting our environment and ecosystem Global warming is a real problem some say, a hoax It is an essential element of our life, here on earth. The power of my imagination can go furthermore As my quill will never rest upon events, stories told Being a poet, sharing, inspiring everyone to read our work. © GLORIA MAGALLANES-LOEB U.S. ****** MY PEN SPEAKS POETRY My pen speaks poetry Words of deep passion and feelings Confessions and goals It is an unburdening Of my heart, mind and soul To write out all my frustrations Express the beauty I see everyday My pen speaks poetry In its own special way. © DONNA McCABE UK

From symphonies of sorting, to reflections in a sea of plastic, to recycled treasures of love letters to Mother Earth, the dance of three arrows and waste to wonder of earth's recycled voices, eight poets penned their inner creativity with insightful compositions, their thoughts of recycling and environmental conservation. OCEAN'S CRY Oh, blue body of life, Azure, royal blue, turquoise, teal, Color my life in blues, uplifting strife From the midst of man's fall. Real, Real in his prolific dumping of garbage in its depths, insouciant of consequences On marine life, slowly disappearing into a cage of fishing nets, plastic bags, oil spills, defaces Defaces reefs, shores, schools of fish, Extinguishing crustacean habitats, Underwater algae beds where fish, Multicolored of varying shapes and sizes Sizes that help propel the flourishing Ecosystems beneath man's watchful eye who's still looking for expanding, conquering territories for boastful Boastful insecurities need to be bolstered by their flashy vanity Showing off their possessions, a creed of avarice, capitalism, duplicity Duplicity in dealing justly, meticulously Working in protecting assets vanishing Existence, as man only knows how to fully Siphon resources without a care of destroying Destroying access to them in a furor of greed that' s only surpassed by Pride's cataclysmic need to conquer the unknown by debasing it as simple opposition, binary. © MALAK KALMONI CHEHAB Canada ***** EARTH'S DESTRUCTION Tampering with nature's plans Who do we think we are Altering the world and its land Just for the sake of our cars Polluting the oceans and rivers With all our toxic waste Dumping without thinking Causing chaos in our haste Cutting down the forests Making animal species extinct What on earth are we doing It's time to stop and think It's time to save the planet To help mother earth bloom Time is of the essence Do something to help soon. © DONNA McCABE UK ****** D ANCE OF THE THREE ARROWS motion finding itself in return: three arrows, bent at perfect thirds, chasing their own tails, a continuum of becoming and becoming again - the way water rises to cloud, falls to river, returns to sea: no beginning, no center holding. How the world persists in cycles, not cycles but spirals that almost touch their origins. See how matter refuses conclusion, transforms instead - plastic bottles becoming jackets, paper becoming paper again, metal melting to take new shapes: nothing is ever truly gone, only rearranged, redistributed across this great economy of molecules. The green arrows turn and turn, inexhaustible, like the first morning spinning out of chaos, like thought flowing back into itself, reconsidering What systems we devise to imitate the earth's patient recomposing: death into life into death, and in this dance of the three arrows we find not perfect circles but the honest progression of matter learning to save itself from our brief, wasteful hands. © CONCETTA PIPIA U.S. ***** GOGYOSHI: "LIFE DROWNED IN THE SEA OF PLASTIC" Intrinsic nature of life is elastic Forcefully it is made plastic To cap it all, it's drowned in the sea of plastic Stifled it, giving reflective calls to Humanity Discard plasticity, embrace elasticity! © SUBHASHCHANDRA ADHAV India ***** RECYCLED TREASURES: A LOVE LETTER TO MOTHER EARTH Dear Mother Earth, As I sit down on your humble lap of fragile love to write this, I'm overwhelmed with hues of gratitude from the rainbow you provided and your love to protect me in your hug by providing food, shelter and water. As words can never express just how much you mean to me, and how thankful I am for all you've done, I am trying to follow the path you showed us by safeguarding your treasures, wholeheartedly. Mother, I have stopped wastage of water by recycling it through my garden. Even the organic waste has become manure for my plants. I want to treasure the water by sharing with everyone. I don't want to buy a car or even a scooter as I'll be adding extra pollution and there's wastage of petrol. I want to treasure the beauty of earth from earthquakes or landslides. I don't want to buy extra clothes, books of any accessories, unless really necessary. We want to treasure the plants and trees with animals. I hate to see even a minute part of the earth turning into a dump yard and so I avoid buying new machines, mobile or TV. If I don't need one, our friendly security guard takes it happily. I cherish his happiness as a bonus. Mother, many people are turning into vegetarians and even vegans. You'll be fortunate to see all your living beings living peacefully without fear of getting hurt or killed. The valuable living beings will be treasured for helping farmers with manures! Very soon, we'll treasure you by not greedily digging earth for petrol and diesel, as we started to depend on solar power. Good news! Ugly monster of humankind, the plastic, is also being recycled! As your daughter, I'll treasure you in my own humble way, meekly. You are my rock, my hero, and a guiding light through ups and downs. Please bless me to treasure your treasure trove by recycling wherever, whenever possible. If you suffer, we'll suffer, humankind will suffer! As a Mother Earth, please, please teach everyone about recycling the natural wealth through your love and care. Our family of the world wouldn't be where we are today without all the sacrifices you've made by tolerating our greedy, selfish and cruel nature! Thanks for always helping me to remember what's important in life...and today, it's you, Mother Earth. ©SONAL RAO India ***** RECYCLING DAY: FROM WASTE TO WONDER TO MOTHER EARTH In factory I will REDUCE Reduce emissions by solar Handcuffing pollution. In landfill I will RECYCLE Recycle waste materials To use for agriculture. In house I will REUSE Reuse clothes into wash rags To save cost. In garage I will REPAIR Repair broken electronics To extend lifespan. In constitution I will RETHINK Rethink of a green policy To combat ecocide. © NYOK M. MARENG Sudan ***** A LOVE LETTER TO MOTHER EARTH Thy deep forest cradles me in its bosom I close my eyes in sacred stillness While a hundred little robins huddle by Chirpin' sweetly In notes of ne'er forgotten lullabies. Thy beaches span towards the horizon To meet the clouds Kissing the majestic skies Ahh...let me roll against the sands 'Til I breathe no more. 'Til I close these eyes. Thy bright sun glares in dawn break Thy owl moon watches the weary night Thy million stars over my head Delightfully dot the grey skies. Thy pinkish tangerine canvas, the Sunset, Turns into a purplish blaze that is Magnificently perched over the hills now Yet gently, so gently away Slips stealthily into the night. Please don't stop loving me My Mother Earth Thy immense love Thou has Is mine forever. Ever grateful eternally For cradling me in your arms. © MARIA EVELYN QUILLA SOLETA Philippines ***** THE SYMPHONY OF SORTING The symphony of sorting comes from the choice of selecting whether we love mother earth who has a special say in our birth We should be willing to choose recycled paper and recycled books making choices of walking near distance which will help pollution to reduce We should choose to use cloth bags and completely avoid plastic for marketing and daily use we have a choice to sort and choose Mother Earth is getting destroyed with every passing day, we should make a choice to live with the symphony of nature completely stop nature's torture! © ANU BUDHRANI India

Theme: "TWITTERPATED" Brevity in Micro Poetry refers to expressing a complex thought or emotion using a small amount of words. Poems are normally short and each word chosen carries significant weight. Poets were required to write in just 18 words. "TEMPEST" My everything I'm your temptress, Tempestuous in bed Tantalizingly twitterpated Taunted, You are... the tornado in my head. © RHIANNON OWENS UK "TWITTERPATED" He stood behind her In a fairground field that long ago summer a pensioner she is still twitterpated. © BERNADETTE O'REILLY Ireland Twitterpated by his chiseled features, I sighed in his presence like a novice Swooned by his piercing stare. © KRISTY RAINES U.S. Blue butterfly! Fly to sky! Dwell in your poetic nature! Mother twitterpated, You are in her prayers, Forever © MEHRANGIZ TALAIEZADEH Iran "YOUR SMILE" With the allure of the moon's magic Enchanting, seductive I'm stoned, intoxicated Twitterpated With your smile honey sweet. © MYRTLE REYES EVE TEJADA Philippines "PERPETUALLY TWITTERPATED" She dances drowning lush lawns celestially rehabilitated drawn down she spins into stars soundly resuscitated well beyond Mars... © MATT ELMORE U.S. " NOSTALGIA" Let me be as a dream Forgotten Dust without meaning Twitterpated Within your beautiful eyes and my Love. © SHEILA ANN PACKIRNATHAN Malaysia "POETRY" Reins in the heart Unleashed by ardor Twitterpated dance of emotions Poem offspring of love Explosive, longing caress © ROSEMARIE MIRANDA Philippines "TWITTERPATED" Twitterpated All his life The fond amateur languished Like a love's April fool, Lost, sad and uncared, alas! © SAFDAR BHATTI Pakistan "FAMOUS" Twitterpated She was hunted by paparazzi Famous on all covers. Spied in the spotlight Every time. No Intimacy. © BOGDANA GAGEANU Romania Drowning in avalanche fuzzy warm sweet emotions unbeknownst teen is twitterpated by burgeoning swell of all-consuming infatuation ©RUPA RAO U.S. "TWITTERPATED" The girl stares every night at this waning waxing golden light she is twitterpated by the moon's sight © RAFIYA SAYEED India "RECKONING" In this transitory abode We dwell, twitterpated In euphoria of elegance Toxic effervescence But depart, barren and bare © GUS PEREZ AMIO Philippines "THRILLED INSANITY" Crazy heart Twitterpated art About to start Laughing alone Weird tone Peace sown Dreams were formed Emotions warmed © SONAL RAO India "LOVE TO PAMPER" Couple twitterpated by each other When their fingers intertwined A message to their heart aligned Love to pamper © ENCY BEARIS U.S. In hug circle of arms Pair was twitterpated. There, lap of placidity Heaved oh! Silence volleyed it back. © SHIB RAJ PRADHAN India I am twitterpated with my new crush A shrine of beauty that dovetails My thoughts with wanton feelings © ONYINYECHI COSMOS ETU Nigeria

Expressing in poem or prose form, poets in this feature have woven beautiful compositions of the unsung heroines, their strengths, resilience and impact as well as the pioneering women who break the barriers every day. ** “THE SILENT HEROINES” They weave the dawn with their patient hands Sculptors of souls, valiant guardians In the discreet shadow where their fire shines They build happy worlds Carrying history on their shoulders. From songs of pain to school anthems Their voices rise in the silence Wall of tenderness, beacon of hope They teach love, righteousness Forging hearts with a sure hand, Repairing, forgiving Under their sight, life resonates. They are mothers, sisters, friends, Faithful stars in the sky of our lives Without medals, without golden crows But sovereigns of eternity © MED KERKOUB Algeria ** “MY MOTHER” She is not just an ethereal creature, And news of her birth is no longer poignant. She is no less a moral figure, Exerting her strength without being arrogant. My mother is the family’s neck, On which rests my father as the head, Saving the family’s ship from being wrecked, Availing herself in the kitchen for bread. African woman has the strength of steel, And her asexuality does not negate man’s rationality, Her erotism doesn’t amount to virtues unreal, She is virtuous and full of chastity. My mother is that African woman, Tending to kids, attending to chores. She is that golden crown adorning a nobleman, The vessel of respite, procreation and more. © NWANKWO VICTOR AVIC Nigeria ** The pioneer women have it all. Superiority, strength, resilience, a spirit of courage and passion. She was a legacy for mankind, battled storms and hardship’s sting, through days of toil. She was the beacon of hope, stood in faith with a heart that soared in the spirit, through trials faced and battles won with gusto amidst a testament of time and grace. GOOD WOMAN Weight of the world on her shoulders and she’s carrying all those pawns like her own cosmic intervention. Cursed To be born as a woman In this God forsaken land. She will pick the rays of the sun to wash away sins as an atonement for the wrongdoings of men. Why? Simply, Because she’s a Woman. Poets Note: I dedicate this poem to all women who are pioneers in their own wisdom and wit © SHEILA PACKIRNATHAN Malaysia ** “MOTHER AS SEEN THROUGH THE EYES OF THE CHILD” Mother, the heart that beats for two, Protecting her child from the dragon Strengthening his soul with her eternal love, In every moment she offers him support. She advises her child to learn a lesson From every test professors life gives him Patiently done what he puts his mind to, And she rejoices with him, over every achievement. For her, tradition isn’t a souvenir booklet. It’s a way to keep connected to the roots Although it’s hard to paint a beautiful portrait of her She’s every poet’s source of inspiration. © GHEORGHE LAURA Romania ** “MY HEROINE” Her name is Chris, a Romanian theater director. She is my heroine and my inspiration. A few years ago, she was diagnosed with cancer. She managed to fight with the disease and to survive, being a model for other patients with cancer. She never quits, and always kept her positivity until today. She continues to work, directing her theater plays. She even created a short movie about patients with cancer and with her role of motivating other patients to never let themselves down. This short movie was dispersed to all hospitals as therapy. Chris wrote a book about her experience with cancer, containing an album with photos where her body was clearly affected by the disease. In all her photos, her smile continued to exist. After she managed to battle the disease, she came up with a project of building an independent theater in Bucharest, starting from scratch. She developed a crusade in which she convinced people to donate money for both the campaign and construction materials. The theater is now in the process of being built, after the fundraising. I admire her for doing such great projects, to never lose faith in her success and for her strength. A human being is much stronger than she thinks she is. The challenges reveal this all the time. © BOGDANA GAGEANU Romania ** “THE HOUSEWIFE” I am not drafting policies my vocabulary is like seeping but I am the solo conductor in the unpaid housekeeping. I am not rising sales that is none of my business but I recharge your motivation when you create a mess. You lift and shift heavy loads as I have little muscle tone but I give birth like a career woman bearing pain of a broken bone. © RAFIYA SAYEED India ** “MY HEROINE” As she watches over her children, The mother, my mother, prayed, never hidden, For God to help protect her progeny From abuse, annihilation of faith, depravity, That lead to their lack of success And succor that multiplies as you confess That your leaders: God and mother Are twin lights of hope for a better Future as, she, my role model, Seems able to juggle a colossal Number of things together, While you watch exhaustion in layers Of emotion that leads to prayer For strength to be like her, better, Stronger, more disciplined In applying your faith in a life dispersed Into a material world, Where instant gratification is gold, While patience is sold For being a coward. But never fear, her support Lifts you up to the crest Of belief that with patience Comes great success in abundance As your reward for believing, Applying the innate strength giving You, the mighty, overcoming obstacles That feel like mole hills, becoming pinnacles Of triumph for your abilities To be steadfast while facing adversities That would bog down any other, Not you, no, you apply what was taught to soar. © MALAK KALMON CHEHAB Canada ** “THE FIRE THEY CARRY” I have watched them walk through fire, Heads held high, no time to bend. They lift the weight the world won’t carry, They fight, they mend, they rise again. No trumpets call, no banners wave, Yet still, they march, their voices sure. Hands like rivers carve new pathways, Strength unshaken, spirit pure. They build with love, with pain, with power, Teaching hope where none should grow. They hold the night, they shape the morning, They teach the weary how to glow. I name them here, though names aren’t needed, Their echoes drum in every heart. The world may miss the songs they’ve given, But I have heard them from the start. They do not bow, they do not falter, The earth is steady where they stand. I rise because they walked before me, Their fire burning in my hands. © CONCETTA PIPIA U.S.

Wildlife and Habitat's Edge Haiku expressing the essence of endangered species in their natural habitats. Prose expressing perspectives of wild animals and human encroachment of their natural habitats. "HANGUL" Political strife the deluge of encroachment squeezed alpine meadows Woods of Dachigam the last strip of forest home lair for voiceless beasts. A handful of deer HANGUL, the rare Kashmir stag in last resort left. © RAFIYA SAYEED Jammu/Kashmir, India "HAIKU STRING" The human madness in name of development deforestation deforestation endangering the wildlife leaves no habitat without habitat confused wildlife go astray helpless they encroach civil area fall prey in the encounter with enraged humans the rare species like the South Asian elephant are on the extinct © SUBHASHCHANDRA ADHAV India "SAVE THE WHALES" Nowhere to escape micro plastic pollution Whales lie pale on shores © KRISTY RAINES USA "A HAMSTER'S PERPSECTIVE" Once I used to feel the clean earth underneath my small pink paws and I used my stealth to forage for nutritious food in a vegetable garden or an orchard. Humans used to live in harmony with nature, especially with my kind. But fate seemed to have other plans and I found out later on. Man is under a dark spell that turned him into a greedy fellow who will do everything to gain more wealth without caring about the consequences of his actions. The once utopian life is gone; my kind lives in fear, being always on the run. My home becomes smaller as men conquer it, believing themselves as mightier than Mother Nature, herself. Tears run down my little eyes every time I witness the destruction and despair in my surroundings and my heart is struck with grief as I mourn the loss of the innocent souls that perished either by accidentally getting entangled in a piece of trash or by the poisons sprayed on them by men that consider them pests. I try to be brave and set up a good example to the future hamster generations, but I can't help it, sometimes. Certain scenes are too painful, even for the lion-hearted. "Will I ever see the sun again? Will the beautiful fragrance of fruit trees and wildflowers please my little nose again? Will I ever hear nature's symphony instead of the noise of chaos? Will I regain what Mother Nature has given to me and my kind?" These are the questions that I don't know if I'll receive an answer to, but with a pinch of courage and wisdom, and ray of hope, I have a feeling that my kind will survive, especially since the wind whispers in my ear every day about the attempts of a group of kind souls to help us regain our home, so that we won't become extinct. POET'S NOTE: The text is a story from a Romanian hamster's perspective. The Romanian hamster or Dobrudja hamster is a species of rodents found in Bulgaria and Romania. © GHEORGHE LAURA Romania Hunting lives as prey The most felt hurtful process For the sake of fame © BOGDANA GAGEANU Romania "WINGS OF SORROW" I stretch my patagia, leathery wings unfolding like a brown cloak, and soar above my dwindling kingdom. Once, lush forests of Narra, Molave and other native trees that stretched towards the sky, providing endless glades for my kind to dance upon sunbeams. Now, barren hills scar the horizon. I glide over stumps, remnants of giants cut down by two-legged invaders. Their strange, loud beasts tore through our home, leaving devastation. My scales prickled with fear as I witness families like mine - Philippine flying lizards - displaced, struggling to survive. One last sentinel remains - a majestic, almost 500-year old Narra tree, its gnarled trunk twisted with age and wisdom. Yellow markings deface its ancient skin - a death sentence scribbled by the invaders. My heart sinks. This was where my mate, Malaya, laid our eggs last season. Where will our young ones hide now? The Narra tree seems to mourn with me, its leaves and branches swaying slowly - a requiem dance in the gentle breeze. It waves sadly, as if bidding farewell to our world. I imagine hearing whispers on the wind: "Farewell, little one...my roots have seen centuries rise and fall...and soon, my existence will crumble and only fragmented memories will remain." I land on a branch, claws gripping tight, and survey the ravaged landscape. Tears prick at my eyes - a lizard's sorrow. Will anyone hear our silent screams before our world disappears? As sunset paints the horizon orange, I spread my wings once more, flying towards the fading light - towards a future uncertain. The Narra tree's faint whisper seems to carry on the wind: "Fly away, little one. Carry our will and ignite our hope. Go and live!" © JEFFREY CEJERO Philippines Two-photo slideshow of Jeffrey Cejero and lizard. Hit the arrow to the right of the photo, to view the next image. "SERIES OF ENDANGERED SPECIES HAIKU" AMUR LEOPARD silent, amber eyes - snowfall veils the last footprints ghost of the forest JAVAN RHINO river reeds whisper ancient horn skims the water - a world shrinking fast VAQUITA (Porpoise) silver arc rising a breath in the empty sea - vanishing ripple HAWKSBILL TURTLE tides braid shifting sand soft shells dream beneath the stars - nets drift, waiting still MOUNTAIN GORILLA mist crowns the green hills hands like ours grasp broken twigs - silent eyes implore SNOW LEOPARD in the highland mist silent paws leave no footprint - a shadow in snow ORANGUTAN red fur in treetop wise eyes ponder forest's fate - branches bend with time AMUR TIGER stripes blend with birch trees a hunter's breath fogs the air - forests hold their king BLUE WHALE beneath the wave's song the ocean's heart beats slowly - giant shadows glide POLAR BEAR while on endless white paws tread where ice meets the sea - solitude reigns here GALAPAGOS TORTOISE ancient shells crawl slow islands cradle their journey - time moves with each step ANDEAN CONDOR wings spread against sky mountains echo with their calls - lords of the high winds CHEETAH spots blur into speed the chase ends as dawn breaks gold - grasslands whisper tales BORNEO PYGMY ELEPHANT gentle giants roam, small ears flap under dense canopies - island's secret kept © CONCETTA PIPIA U.S. "DEMONIC CREATURES" It was a hot summer afternoon and we were enjoying our lunch under a tree, near our resort, in a green forest. While the music was on, suddenly a tiger appeared from nowhere! Few joined him and surrounded our bus! We couldn't move an inch! It was evening, getting darker! Our heartbeat could be heard by us! Hissing sounds were heard from a branch. As we were feeling hellish, one of the tigers standing on the rock said, "Why did you invade our habitat without permission? Shall we cage all of you? You demonic creatures, weren't convinced by destroying our trees? You burnt our forests with animals, alive! Few species have become extinct and we are endangered! Don't you have some common sense to protect us and balance nature? You humans are the worst species who're destroying the earth through your skilled brain! We could've killed you but we aren't greedy like you! Get some oxygen and go away, as we have spared you!!!" Wiping my sweat, I wanted to escape but couldn't! Can't believe it was just a dream! © SONAL RAO INDIA "LET THEM BE" Wildlife's sacred space leave them be, let them thrive free Earth's delicate dance! © SHAMPA SAHA India "WHY IS THERE AN ORANGUTAN ON THE ELECTRIC POLE" A loud thud startled the few remaining Orangutans in the middle of the thinning jungles of Borneo and Sumatra. The crash shook the tall tree that was made a home by a family of these endemic mammals. "What was that, Dad?", a juvenile Orangutan asked his father, half-asleep and scared at the early morning commotion. "It was the house of the Chieftain," his father quipped, referring to the century-old tree that had fallen not far from the one they were staying in and called it a home. The lull of the crash was suddenly followed by the familiar roar referred to by these forest dwellers as the 'machine' - a mechanical saw operated by a chain that ripped through the bodies of once pristine tall trees in the jungles of this Southeastern Asian country. "It's the outsiders again," referring to the people with the chainsaws. "They are operating the machine again, his dad uttered with a sigh of frustration and pain. "But Dad, they are almost near our house, we can feel now, the breaking of branches and twigs near us, maybe in a day or two they can clean the area and would probably hit us home", the juvenile Orangutan pleaded for explanation and comfort. "What can we do son, what can we do?" the elder Orangutan muttered, almost a whisper of defeat. "I will go down to the city, I will talk to the machine owner so that they will stop what they are doing or else we will lose our home soon", suddenly burst the juvenile Orangutan. "Don't you ever think about it, his father raised his voice. Enough already to what happened to your brother", 'Lerma', calling his wife, "Watch over your stupid son, he's talking nonsense again just like his brother, the elder Orangutan shouted as he hastily slid down to the branch of the nearby tree. The whole day was dominated by the whirring of distant machines, alternated by loud crashes by the fallen bodies of big trees that once stood up in the jungle. Leo crouched in one corner of their tree looking at the distant skyline. When the night came, darkness covered the entire horizon. Nocturnal dwellers of the jungle started to do their things. Hisses and hoots were now eerily dominating the sacred silence of the night in the jungle. Somewhere in one of the few remaining trees, a creature was not asleep. It was Leo, he had a plan, and would execute it when he was sure that everyone in the family was in deep slumber. He climbed down carefully from their tree so as not to make even a small noise. Like a seasoned kind of his clan, he hit the ground of the forest without being detected. He carefully made his steps, a mix of running and crawling, jumping and stooping along the bushes and undergrowth of the forest, passing through the clearing and fallen trees eaten up by the machine during the day. His heart is racing, his blood pumping like his ancestors when they once owned the jungle. It was their heaven, an abode for their kind but now threatened to be wiped out permanently. He followed vehicle tracks in the covering of the pale moon above, down to the highway. It was the first time he ever set foot in the place. He cannot see their tree anymore, he is very far away from his home, but he is not afraid because he has a mission to fulfill in his heart. He will save his house and his family from the Outsiders. At the first ray of early sunlight on the outskirts of the city, he could see the tall buildings and hear the distant traffic rumbling in the center of the city. Which building should he go to? How could he find the machine owner? Where are the other Outsiders living in the city? He bravely took his steps along the sidewalk. The speed of the moving vehicles in front would almost knock him down on the pavement. He cannot distinguish the Outsiders now, there are too many and all of them just look the same. But he is not deterred, he summoned his strength from the blood of his ancestors; he is a warrior, a proud dweller of the jungle. With his newfound strength and determination, he made a burst of dash like the old warrior of the jungle. He came to a clearing, and suddenly stopped at the side of the concrete pool. It's the city plaza, the fountains were off in the morning, and he saw water. He never felt so thirsty during his long journey, until he saw water in the pool. He bent over to scoop this precious liquid he saw in his palm and place it in his mouth. He threw up by the pungent smell of the liquid, it was black and slimy, of algae. That moment, a small kid saw him by the pool, tucked in his father's hand with a backpack, the kid had a morning class to catch up. "Look, there's a monkey in the pool", the little boy pulled his father's hand. Instantly, the father released the kid's hand and acts to duck as if grabbing something on the ground. "There's a beast here, there's a beast, help, help". At that moment, Leo, the juvenile Orangutan from the jungles of Borneo and Sumatra, was startled by the sudden turn of events. He was surprised and, for the first time, so scared by the close encounter of the Outsiders. He pleaded, opened his arms, and tried to speak. "Please, I don't want to harm you, there is a big misunderstanding here. I want to go to the machine owner, I want to talk to him. I am saving our houses, the tall tree in the forest, they are almost there to cut it, and if they do, we will lose our home and we all gonna die, please listen to me, I don't want to harm you or anybody else." But his pleading and supplication fall on deaf ears, they all don't understand him. All the Outsiders could hear were growls and hisses from his mouth. He is a beast from the forest. He became the 'outsider' right in the middle of the city. Suddenly, a hard object hits his back that almost knocks him into the pool. As he turned, he saw a crowd of Outsiders holding sticks in their hands of various sizes and lengths. The outsiders were carrying stones in their hands and they shouted almost in chorus, "It's a beast coming from the forest, let's kill it." In the jungle, Lerma, the mother Orangutan, woke up earlier than usual. As a routine, she always peeks at the branch where her son Leo, would sleep, before anything else. She was shaking when she saw that Leo was no longer there. "Gadon", she called her husband, "Our son Leo is gone," she burst into fear and with a mother's anguish kind of wailing. After hearing this, Gadon jumped to his feet and swung without hesitation from tree to tree. At the back of his mind, he will find his son. He will bring him back home, to the jungle, to their tree. He knows the shortest way to the city. He is sure that he can reach before it's too late. He will do everything to protect his son and his family. Gadon finds the outskirts of the city, quickly. He saw the city skyline and the early morning rush hour was screeching on the pavement. "Where are you, Leo, my son, where are you", he said in between his heavy breathing. "I will find you, I can bring you back home, to our tree." Just when Gadon was about to cross to the other side of the highway, a speeding BMW caught him right at his body, sending him a few meters away on the side of the road, landing him head first in the concrete pavement. The BMW swiveled at the barrier by its side, Gadon lying on the pavement gasping for breath. He is numb and almost unconscious. His vision was blurred but he was sure that it was the distant skyscrapers dominating the horizon. He took his final breath and uttered a faint voice, "Leo, my son, let's go home, to our tree." At the plaza, Leo is overwhelmed by the sudden influx of people armed with sticks and stones, whose only purpose is to kill the beast from the jungle. He glanced at the surroundings but could not find a tree to climb. He is panicking now because the crowd is closing in and almost encircling him. He summoned his last strength suddenly to the nearest standing object. There are no trees in the plaza, it's not the same as his home in the forest. He saw the tallest object he could find, an electricity pole standing just at the side of the concrete pavement of the city plaza. He has no choice and he climbs it. He is at the top, the sticks cannot reach him. This time the crowd uses the stones. Big and small, they throw everything in his direction. He ducks and swings on the wire, and some of the rocks thrown, hit where he planted his feet. The crowd below now swelled in numbers. They are in a frenzy to kill the monkey from the jungle. Leo at the top of the pole, is pleading, "Please don't hurt me, I wanna go home now, I don't want to see the owner of the machine anymore, please let me go home, my mom and my dad are all worried for me now, they are looking for me now." But the crowd below doesn't understand him, NO ONE would like to understand him. For them, he is the Outsider, a beast from the jungle and he should be killed. That moment, a loud bang echoed in the air. It was a gunshot, somebody in the crowd had a gun. Leo, the juvenile Orangutan, felt a searing pain that almost detached his thigh from his body. He was hit by the bullet fired from the gun. He could fall but clasped his shaking hands to the bundle of wires crisscrossing at the pole. He felt a very excruciating pain in his wound, blood started to drip down on the concrete pavement. He remembered his home, the tall trees, and the fresh air in the jungle. The warm love of his mother and the strong arms of his dad that always protected him. Now he is far from any comfort, he is in the middle of the city, with a fatal gunshot wound. Tears began to roll down from his eyes and started to cry, "I'm sorry Mom, I can't save you anymore. Dad, I'm so sorry, if only I listened to you. I can't be home now or see the forest anymore." It was dusk, but Lerma was still waiting outside their tree. She can't stop the welling of tears in her eyes while gazing at the faraway distance. Gadon her husband, is gone and her son is not yet home at this hour. She's afraid that they may not be able to come home tonight. What happened to us? She whispered, what happened to the forest? What happened to our HOME... © FLOYD GALE CABUS Philippines "WRITHES" The birds will not sing They howl, screech in pain seeing Their world jeopardized. © Sheila Ann Packirnathan Malaysia

Contributing Editor, Carl Scharwath's Interview with Impspired Editor, Mr. Charlie Cawte: CARL SCHARWATH: This morning I had the pleasure of interviewing Charlie Cawte. Charlie is the editor of Impspired, which many of you have been published in. Charlie's father Steve, recently passed, and our literary community lost a great voice for us. I knew Steve as he published my 2nd book, "Playground of Destiny", in which I donated all the proceeds to Steve's charity, 'Good Causes Fund.' I enjoyed working with this amazing editor and person. Good morning Charlie and thank you for being here with ILA Magazine, sharing your thoughts as a new editor. We at ILA Magazine, wish you the best in your new endeavor and are here for you if you need any help from our community. CARL: Can you tell us about your father's legacy with this literary journal and what it meant to him? CHARLIE: My father had dedicated his heart and soul into Impspired Publishing from 2019 until the week of his passing. When he wasn't being an incredible family man, you could be almost undoubtedly certain that he would be working away, building the Impspired empire. It was very clear that this literary journal gave him great joy and pride. I don't believe it's often that a person can say that, with the power of sheer will and determination, they managed to turn their hobby into a full-time occupation. I'm sure many of the American writers noticed that, while the time of the email they received from my father might have been during normal hours for them, in the UK, it translated to 3, 4, or even 5 a.m. - and this was no rare occurrence. He was so dedicated to his craft, to growing his brand, to pleasing his writers, that he hardly let himself catch a break. This even included the countless hours of editing that he did remotely, from the heart transplant ward at the Royal Papworth Hospital. This passion was not only fueled by his professional aspirations, but also by his deep, genuine love for writing. It gave him motivation and purpose. I believe that writers could sense his authenticity. His legacy with Impspired Publishing goes beyond the journal itself - it's embedded in the countless writers he supported, the community he built, and the tireless dedication he poured into every aspect of the work. My father's passion for literature and his firm belief in its power to connect people will continue to live on through the books that he has brought to life, and I'm confident that this influence will be felt for years to come. CARL : How did you prepare to step into this role after your father's passing, emotionally and professionally? CHARLIE: Taking on the mantle of Impspired Editor has ben an incredibly tough decision. While I had previously helped my father with various business tasks, I remember being in awe of how he managed to run such a well-oiled machine, especially given the many constantly moving cogs involved. The thought of letting this ever-growing journal slow down felt wrong. yet, it was clear that I wasn't fully prepared to step into the role at the level my father had reached after five years of hard work. I knew that, like him, I would face many of the same frustrations and challenges he once did at the start of his publishing journey. Fortunately, I have a strong network of support to guide me. Most notably, my Assistant Editor, Mary Farrell, who has embraced this challenge alongside me. With her help, and some external support, I've been able to better understand the processes needed to keep Impspired ticking. She also consistently reminds me that Impspired is mine to lead, and encourages me to make the changes I see fit. This support has been invaluable as I've prepared for this role. Given that my academic background is in Business and the English Language, I had faith in my ability to be a competent editor. However, the hardest challenge I've faced is accepting that I cannot perfectly replicate my father's work - I have to find my own way forward and make it my own. My father initially started Impspired as a hobby, but it quickly grew far beyond that. It became a meaningful outlet for him during his challenging health journey. My aim is to build on the foundation he created, evolving the business into a sustainable venture that continues to honor his legacy while allowing me to shape it into something meaningful. CARL : What's your vision for the journal moving forward, and how does it align with or differ from your father's approach? CHARLIE: My vision for Impspired is definitely not set in stone. The more I learn, the more ideas I have. And since I'm still largely in the process of learning, those ideas show no signs of stopping. Regardless of any changes I make to the way Impspired is run, my focus will remain the same as my father's: helping writers to present their work and their passion in a way that they can take pride in. Whether it's a tangible book that can be showcased at book launches, libraries, or presented to family; an e-book; or simply a page in the online magazine. My goal is to continue building on the strong foundation that my father has laid, while also exploring new ways to expand. CARL: How do you plan to balance preserving the journal's established identity with introducing your own editorial voice? CHARLIE: Somehow balancing the journal's established identity with my own editorial voice is something I've through a lot about. My father built Impspired on a foundation of authenticity, passion, and a commitment to helping writers share their work with pride. These core values will always be at the heart of a journal. The identity he created is something I deeply respect, and I'm committed to preserving that. However, I feel that, as the new editor, it is important for me to bring my own perspective and ideas to the table. I want to stay true to the spirit of Impspired but also infuse it with my own voice and professional goals. I plan to always keep an open dialogue with the community. If there's one thing I've learned from the outpouring of messages from Impspired writers who had only met my father briefly over video chats or exchanged a few emails, it's that personal connections are incredibly important and deeply valued by writers. These connections are definitely something that I wish to develop myself. CARL: What's your process for selecting submissions, and how do you ensure a diverse range of perspectives? CHARLIE: Of course, one of the most enjoyable (and admittedly hardest) roles of an editor is the submission selection process. As I am only at the beginning of my journey, I have decided to reduce the number of writers to 30 per bi-monthly issue. While this has lightened my workload in terms of formatting pieces for the website, it has made the task of selecting a limited number from the many outstanding submissions much more difficult. Typically, writers who submit multiple pieces across a variety of content types - such as poetry, short fiction, and artwork - tend to have a more favorable submission. I believe publishing a range of formats is more engaging for the readers of the site. Luckily, despite Impspired being conceived in Lincoln, a city in the East Midlands of England - where 'Imp' refers to the Lincoln Imp and 'spire' to the Lincoln Cathedral (look it up if you haven't seen it, we're very proud of it!) - Impspired has attracted many international writers. This natural attraction of diversity means that a selection of 30 writers is practically guaranteed to offer immensely different perspectives from vastly different walks of life. With submissions from writers living on the beaches of Mauritius to New York City, finding diverse perspectives is not much of a concern when drafting the new Impspired Issue. Just check out the most recent Issue below, you'll see what I mean! Impspired Issue 31 - impspired CARL: Are there any new features, themes, or initiatives you'd like to introduce in upcoming issues? CHARLIE: For the most recent issue, which also happens to be my first published work, I decided to introduce a new concept: 'The First Time Published Slot.' This section, reserved exclusively for writers who have never been published before, will be featured in each bi-monthly Issue. The goal was to create a safe space for emerging writers to present their work for the first time and encourage those who have kept their writing private to take that first step toward publication. This new feature will hopefully be the first of many. As I become more accustomed to the work required to produce these Issues, I'll be able to identify even more opportunities for both new and established voices to be heard. CARL: How do you hope to honor your father's memory through your leadership of the journal? CHARLIE: All in all, I truly believe that the best way to honor my father's legacy through the leadership of Impspired would be to make it my own. While I will always hold onto the core values he instilled - authenticity, a passion for the written word, and a genuine connection with writers - I also know that I must bring my own perspective and vision to the journal. I aim to continue growing the community he nurtured, while also exploring new ideas and opportunities that can keep the journal evolving and thriving. By staying true to what he built, but also allowing it to adapt and flourish in my own way, I hope to keep the Impspired name alive, not just through the work we publish, but through the support and encouragement we give to the writers who contribute to it. Thank you to anybody that haas read this far, and thank you to Carl for the opportunity to answer these questions. For anyone wondering about the future of Impspired in more depth, I hope that my responses have offered some clarity. Keep being Impspired! impspired - the literary magazine for all writers and artists

Featured Editor's Choice for February 2025 MATTHEW 5:5 1. If life is on a silver spoon, I didn't eat it. It's not what I needed. I wouldn't be me if I hadn't gone hungry to rise from depleted and nearly deleted. I've been rendered conceded. 2. If life is on a silver spoon, give it to someone who's not what I come from. Give it to someone who isn't as stubborn - someone more humble, less hasty than I was with Spirit less undone. 3. If life is on a silver spoon, take it from hands who come here with demands. Strip it from those who strip life from our lands. We must take a stand - A line in the sand, heart to heart, hand in hand. 4. If life is on a silver spoon, look to Saint Peter. Ask him where God is found. I'm here to meet Her. Look to his keys, then the trees for the meanings of Willow and Cedar. Maybe, sit with Demeter. 5. If life is on a silver spoon, lessons are often left squandered, forgotten, and history repeats the expired and the rotten. Go for the Gold. It's within - can't be boughten. © JESSICA CUNNINGHAM Her legal name is Jessica, but mostly everyone knows her as "Sunny." She is an energy healer, specializing in rebalancing the chakras and releasing deep wounding from the body's electromagnetic field, and she is a published poet. Healing has been her devotional life's work. Having now risen from a few nearly fatal experiences, she has been immersively self-healing and studying healing of the mind, body, electromagnetic field and spirit for the last seventeen years, utilizing many different holistic modalities along the way in recovery. Jessica loves sharing knowledge with guide, motivation, inspiration, serving those moving to empower themselves and accelerate their healing journeys. Jessica is also passionate about sharing love, healing, awareness, esoteric wisdom, and encouragement for spiritual growth through poetry. She currently has two published poetry books available for international sale at this time, and a third on its way.

Long after the garden had been destroyed, Its inhabitants fleeing into the wilderness, The charred remains of the great tree, Was all that remained of this lost paradise.   The words carved into the tree by the knife of the fallen champion, They glowed red in the amber ash, Yet , still visible to the keen eye, They read, “ I kissed the treasure and failed.”   Words written in tears but visible from an iron will. They lay smoldering in the sunlight upon the dead wood of the tree. The serpent coiled itself, its tongue darting into the still air.   The snake’s burning eyes fixed upon the hard bark, The bare boned bark of the fallen tree. The tree that was once so great with its precious fruit. Now just a smoldering pile of rubble in stance.   The serpent sneered, its tongue darting out into the stale air. A cruel smile upon its fangs, It had taken down the armored knight, He and his maiden princess who he loved so dearly. They were banished and made to flee in the wilderness.   With a violent hiss he called forth his brood of snakes and vermin. They arose from the depths of the charred earth. A family of dark creatures now controlled the fallen paradise.   Off in the distance on an oasis of sacred ground was an owl. He was a master sage that lived in this secret realm. He had watched the carnage and the defeat of the knight. He never interfered with what fate had planned.   This time, his courage would not allow him to turn away from this tragedy. He flew from his perch to face the snake who was the leader of this horde of venomous creatures. The snake coiled and in mockery of this fallen paradise stopped his hissing when the owl sage flew into the middle of them. A circle was made and the owl and snake faced each other.   The snake hissed, “How dare you, a mere owl come to face me.  I will kill you quickly and spare the agony that your body will bear from my sting.”   The Owl sage replied. “I am guardian of all that is good. You have desiccated a sacred ground. You and your clan of filth will feel my wrath…for there is no forgiveness for what you have done.”   The snake coiled tightly and let its neck stretch full and high. It said, “feel my poison in your heart as you lay in agony upon the ground.”   It reared its head back ready to strike when the owl in a lightning move hurled its razor sharp beak upon the snake’s throat and bit in two. The snake’s head went flying into the air and landed looking up on the ground. The look of agony in its blood filled eyes. The body of the snake lay twisting and turning on the ground. The owl grabbed it by its severed neck and began to swallow it whole. The body undulating, the tail like a whip snapping and curling as it disappeared into the owl’s belly. After a long moment of silence the owl opened its mouth and a trail of black smoke came out of his beak as it made its way to disappear in the clouds above.   A giant dark spider, its hairy legs flaying in the Sun’s glare, spoke with vengeance in its voice. “ Hear me oh venom of the deep earth. I command you to sting this Pious Owl . Sting him till his body explodes from your venom and we shall watch it as he burns in the Sun’s glare .”   The serpents, spiders, and scorpions of the deep raised their fangs ready to strike. The Owl Sage raised his body up from the ground. The feathers on the tips of his wings grew razor sharp knife blades. He went into a swirling motion and cut every one of the vermin into little pieces. They lay in heaps trembling on the scorched earth. Only one little scorpion survived. It lay huddled by an opening in the ground. One that led to the underworld. The Owl approached it.   “Please don’t eat me…I beg you let me live. I am sorry for what my kin have done. Please forgive me.”   The owl sage, the rage in it had past. It looked at the little scorpion and said…”Crawl back to your dark world and tell those down there what you saw. Tell them the light will not be dimmed to those who will fight for what is right”   The scorpion slid into the hole and went back to the dark world to tell of this battle with the light. Its body still shaking from fright.   The owl sage took to the air and flew into the great desert that lay ahead . He found pieces of armor on the ground as he flew. Steel boots, Breast plate, plumed helmet and chainmail gloves . He then found  the shining battle sword The one the knight wore in his last lost battle. He scooped it up with all the other pieces as he flew to the water hole near by.   The knight lay there naked and exhausted. By him was the princess in her shear sweat stained gown. When the owl dropped the armor at his bare feet …the knight rose up and put it on. He looked at the owl and said, “I carried the princess all the way and shed my armor to bear her weight. I am well now and can fight for our freedom.”   He reached down and picked up the sleeping princess in his arms. She opened her eyes and said, “No need to carry me…my own strength will take us on the journey we must travel.   The Owl sage spoke…”You may go back to paradise. Rebuild it again. Let your children flourish upon the land. You have been given again what you lost…as in the meaning to this tale…”true love will find a way to survive.”   The Owl Sage flew to his perch at the oasis…and for the first time in centuries of stoic watch…he smiled…and whispered to himself the Latin phrase: “Omnia Vincit Amor”…the phrase flew from his mouth in a single breath…it carried itself into the desert as it translated the whispered words into English…”Love Conquers All” drifted silently in the breeze, and then was gone,  into the haunting winds of time….