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
Peycho Kanev
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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Tender child was the world born
ferocious murderer.
Born stunned, he was looking around him
where there was light.
The world was born and I too, but you
no, you did not yet exist.
I thought I was dreaming, I was staring at animals, lost,
tearing their throats, between them there seemed to be a sweet music
a piano that was already there,
you not yet, you, no

Thus was the world born
I was watching the stars and the moon
they seemed to cry for how many massacres
man was committing underneath
how could it be possible?
I was born and people were killing each other
you still were not there
games were being invented, the streets were illuminated,
Americans and English were arriving, jazz was replacing flamenco
we were rebuilding streets and houses
tons of ashes we were sweeping
the world was born anew
You not yet

Thus was the world born and love with me
I was leaving home and grandparents
the Etna volcano still covered the cities,
mine included, with ashes just swept
but you, you were not arriving
hurry-up, itís late
otherwise how will I manage to love you
if you still, you still do not arrive

Yet memories of lives burned were left behind.
Or only men and women and children in search of ash
to get back something that was gone lost.
But you, where were you again?
I played, I played for you, waiting for you
even now that the moon is not there
piano notes were taking streets and colours
were covering the grey of the world
stars were arriving with even more light

I was just a little kid when someone told me
wait a bit more, study the music notes
she will eventually come, you will be there too
but you, you were still not there
and I, already one hundred years old
I was already thinking about you, holding you tight

In silence, a silence of notes
touched by fingers that were going
that were flying to sweeten
the appalling tragedy that was killing
millions and millions of people just like this
to produce ash so to warm.
Thus was the world born, god, why,
be born if you still are not there?
It will be late, too much, it will be too late by now
I'll also be ashes when you will arrive
fingers with the desire to play will break down
but I'll be there, a magic shadow for you
I will always be there to love you
to hold your fingers in my hands
even when the world will break down
and the moon and stars and sky will go away
and we with them forever
and we will only be ashes in the wind


Beppe Costa, Rome, Italy

Translator: Karen Costa, Rome, Italy and Georgia



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