Ann Arbor Review


Deji Adesoye
Changming Yuan
Violeta Allmuca
Beppe Costa
Engjell I. Berisha
Narendra Kumar Arya
Akwu Sunday Victor
Michelle Bailat-Jones
Laszlo Slomovits
Stefania Battistella
Agron Shele
Lana Bella
Fahredin Shehu
Alan Britt
Silvia Scheibli
Shutta Crum
Running Cub
Alex Ferde

Irsa Ruci
Jennifer Burd
Paul B. Roth
Richard Gartee
Elisavietta Ritchie
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Helen Gyigya
Amit Parmessur
Sneha Subramanian Kanta
Robert Nisbet

Jeton Kelmendi
Duane Locke

Lyn Lifshin

Richard Lynch
Jean McNerney
Fred Wolven


Ann Arbor Review

is an independent

International Journal & ezine

Copyright (c) 2017 Francis Ferde
All rights revert back to each poet.
--editor / Southeastern Florida

AAR history note:  in print 1967 - 1980.  Irregular publications 1980 - 2004.  As ezine 2004 - present. Most of 48 years all together....


Francis Ferde
Silver Grey Fox
Running Cub
Fred Wolven


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In Tirana is lost in water creeks,

Through extended water drips in the crystal windows,

In the abandoned benches from all of this unrest

In the naked trees all the way to forgiveness.



Even its returning tears of meditation are instant,

Forgotten old romances in memory,

Returning painfully in the soft spirits

A yellow paper, of my diary.



In Tirana of the earlier steps,

Of a bench that is always naked with green flowers,

Of the last glass dropped throughout ridges

Pieces of lips, skies of love



And longing for passed times,

For the deeming of light in the white soul,

For a life thrown away through angels of reflections,

For the abandoned leaves from all of this demise.



And traces are in every heart beat

For her…for someone…for love,

Of after times that are knocked in so much noise

…and of autumn, e melancholic pentagram.






My fatherland!

Exhausted and suffering up to the last point

Exhausted and suffering all the way to becoming drunk,

From the weight of a fearful time,

And fatality of the offense of nations.


My fatherland!

A time of screams from your centuries,

Raised over fires and fortresses of legends,

Bloody wounds by sleeping martyrs

A challenge of fates for the brave.


My fatherland!

Twisted from the waves of our tributes

Lackeys rose over podiums of pain,

Exalted crowds all the way to craziness,

Under seized by heretical time.


My fatherland!

A song of the first bird in the morning

A wind of earth covered by green flowers

A muse of skies always in azure

A summer flower always shining.


My fatherland!

A hope and a praying ground of your sons

A suffering of sacrilegious  that is raised over freedom

An ancient root of human foundation

An eternal voice of the last passions.



Agron Shele, Belgium and Albania

Translator (from Albanian): Peter Tase, Milwaukee, Wisconsin


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