Saath Dino Ki Baat revolves round Maidah whose father dies leaving her to the mercy of her step mother and two step sisters, for sisxty days she arranges to attend an academy wuth her friend Bashri who talks so much that the driver comes to know all about them, emerging as the saviour Maidah needed, her Grand mother always tells her to trust Mr Right who is disciplined and strong charactered as profesion is changeable so is status but nature of a person remains the same ever

Woh Jise ke Dil Kahte Hain-June - reminds the older hostess of her own marriage when she was so young, teenaged, spontaneous, and outspoken just by looking at the new couple dining with them. The new bride was also happy and naughtily asks now an absolutely sobered up hostess how she managed to control her husband"s heart was it not apparently through her perfect cooking and what was the reason for her being in love with her husband and had she really lost her heart to him, provokes the host to find out why the wife of so long was not able to find a right answer and kept quiet.

Dast e dua Mein Bahar Hai by Naima Faaz reflects how day to day joint family can share their troubles in a hilarious manner lightening up their burdens in a very simple way , yet understanding how simple is simple is very difficult to understand

Bhool Bhulaiyan Teri Galiyan thrirty fourth episode by Faiza Iftikhar goes on , Wasma the newly wedded wife asks her new husband Wasi whether or not he was in love with Soha and was he not mrally bound now to the wife as it was his duty to reveal all the matters to her the lawful companion whose foremost concern was to know everything about his past life and every matter connected to him personally interested her for their future marital life

Dastak by Rafat Saraj explains the difference between Laila and Faiza, the rich and bold Laila can buy anything she fancies including four walls and a shelter and also a companion of her dhoosing, where as Faiza a traditional woman must totally depend upon her skills and fate on the man wedded to arranged by the elders.The starting and the end of the short story i beautiful lesson for one and all

From inerview Bashri,Parvin Shaker page 330 pkeeza anchal juneDeep dark brown eyed PrinceRiding from far awayWhacking woods with lightnng speedOn a shining magnificent steedTearing down entwined creepers from gatewaysReleasing entrapped castle from clutching arms of woodsCame in to seeNeedles rusted in the body of his beloved PricessEyes awaiting his arrivalHad lost all their hopeful complaint

Terezinby Taije Silverman —a transfer camp in the Czech Republic We rode the bus out, past fields of sunflowers that sloped for miles, hill after hill of them blooming. The bus was filled with old people. On their laps women held loaves of freshly baked bread. Men slept in their seats wearing work clothes. You stared out the window beside me. Your eyes were so hard that you might have been watching the glass. Fields and fields of sunflowers. Arriving we slowed on the cobblestone walkway. Graves looked like boxes, or houses from high up. On a bench teenage lovers slouched in toward each other. Their backs formed a shape like a seashell. You didn't want to go inside. But the rooms sang. Song like breath, blown through spaces in skin. The beds were wide boards stacked up high on the walls. The glass on the door to the toilet was broken. I imagined nothing. You wore your black sweater and those dark sunglasses. You didn't look at me. The rooms were empty, and the courtyard was empty, and the sunlight on cobblestone could have been water, and I think even when we are here we are not here. The courtyard was flooded with absence. The tunnel was crowded with light. Like a throat. Like a— In a book I read how at its mouth they played music, some last piece by Wagner or Mozart or Strauss. I don't know why. I don't know who walked through the tunnel or who played or what finally they could have wanted. I don't know where the soul goes. Your hair looked like wheat. It was gleaming. Nearby on the hillside a gallows leaned slightly. What has time asked of it? Nights. Windstorms. Your hair looked like fire, or honey. You didn't look at me. Grass twisted up wild, lit gold all around us. We could have been lost somewhere, in those funny hills. And the ride back—I don't remember. Why was I alone? It was night, then. It was still morning. But the fields were filled with dead sunflowers. Blooms darkened to brown, the stalks bowed. And the tips dried to husks that for miles kept reaching. Those dreamless sloped fields of traveling husks.

Al- Muhaimin -pronouncing it can offer the practitioner protection zone and creates an invisible shield needed around him as a tender rose is protected with thorns, the soft heart within its rib cage, like the deer and the rabit have the additional ablity to run faster than they are hounded

The novelette by Rashida Raft beautifully puts forward an angle of the society in which women earch for extra ordinary good looking brides for their marriageable sons, matchmaking , rejecting , selecting innumerable households confuses a woman so much so as finally she is able to get what she was searching for but is so dejected by the outcome , she compares her neighbour"s daughter -in -law who was selected simply through astakharah and the family is perfectly content


From page 69 june Pakeeza Anchal-The grateful bird flew away speaking to the Merciful One, that every time the bird had somehow failed to remember the mighty names of Allah the almighty it found himself in some kind of a noose or the other

Dil E Nadan by Shamim Khaliq reveals the snobbish side of the rich society who ignore to respect the wishes of the lower classes, massi Gafuri is a traditional match maker and is expected to find the most beautiful and suitable bride for Danish , Rafiq also wants Danish to find a suitable match for his charming sister, how destiby plays its role is the theme of the story

Roshni Ka Safar by Sharwat Nazir is a narration of three class mates who happen to meet again after a lapse of ten years of their marriages in a function.. Barira always believed holy books were for covering up tightly to be kept away on the highest shelf never to be touched again, meets Noor Fatima married happily to Abdal who was one of the most intelligent guys ever in the university but also the palinest turned out to be the son of a Manager of a Multi nAtional Company, Nadiya also has changed with time and now looks rich happy content , how life has changed them all, Barira regrets her choice of dropping Abdal for Amir the most dashing young flirt of their time, the couplet from the Quran is the eye opener --Virtuous women are meant fot the virtuous

Small incidents with deep faith and philosophy by Khalid Sidiqi on Paigambar Sal-alla-o-alle-walssalum are most intriguing and guiding the reader towards the true light
from Pakeeza Anchal urdu magzine june

Talash by Doctor Zakia carries forward, The young man now is a practising doctor and knows he was as a child kidnapped and the police officer travelling in the same train as his kidnappers had been suspicious of their behaviour, , the child was left to his cutody till he finds out his real parentage, on the other side the mother had picked up the infant daughter from the nursing mother blaming her husband for the loss of her children, grown up now both are in love the lost boy and the raised girl not knowing their connection so far, makes an iteresting read
Hennaed Hands gives tips on cooling effects of henna and beautifying limbs with decorating them with the natural colouring of henna -- a traditional and ancient art statred centuries ago in India


Mausum Ke Phal tells about mangoe and why it is truly the king of the summer season
Jamun is beneficial for the diabetics and how it is used in various treatments
Kharbooza is antiacidic and antidote to many types of heat triggered illnesses
Alubulhara in dried form is also most helpful for a good digestion and good mind
from pakeeza Anchal june

The interview of bashari Sayad by Gazala Sadiqi is educative entertaining and most interesting, Bshari reveals philosophically how each one of us has hidden the real self under the layers of several false preteses each persona represents an added aspect of our personality

The interview of bashari Sayad by Gazala Sadiqi is educative entertaining and most interesting, Bshari reveals philosophically how each one of us has hidden the real self under the layers of several false preteses each persona represents an added aspect of our personality

gazala sadiqi defines Pakeezgi as the purity of mind , and not just the cleansing of the body, wearing a beautiful soul keeps away many illneses, a healthy mind contributes to build a healthy societyfrom Pakeeza Anchal-june opening lines

Target by Shahaab Shekh continues Dilavar the son of a missing scientist was searching for him and escapes his killers, taking a lift in a car he reaches the apartment of the elderly couple who have tricked him into falling in their trap ,they turn out to be another scientist inventor and his cruel wife who has mind power to control others' minds, Maria gets killed by her scientist husband, the scientist offers Dilavar to show him many more interesting inventions so far jealously guarded secrets , the spray turns the dead body of Maria to smoke, impressed Dilavar agrees to stay, then doubting the intentions of his rescuer tries to run away, meeting the scientist at the main entrance follows him back, a bargain is struck between them Dilawar would meet his real mother about whom he had no clue and in turn would give something in her posssesion that the wicked scientist wants
And then the common shepherd was asked how he knew the new Khalifah appointed was purehearted, kind and virtuous."" Because when the Head is crowned the glory of the power of his piousness does not allow the wild beasts to harm the meek sheepGazal by Rehana Yasmin-- reads When I seive through the wordsAn oasis sparkles within a dropStretching my wings I flapinviting life to come closerpassions of love--Shadows of deathEach burden crushing me downboth proofs of my existenceMirror or stone whichever i get to seeEtching my beloved in my every heartbeatYour memory forever carved inmay be my beloved equates higher than any esteemedI cherish his portrait withinReflecting the same Adam , the same original EveTo be born again yet differently in each one
Tareeqa e rozgaar by Samar Abbas Huma June is very interesting about a young man who is the proprietor of a disposal centre sometimes gets a good bargain and resells the objects at a higher price, once he is called by a fifty year old woman who lives alone, he buys the red leather sofa set and sees a beautiful antique piece for which he steals in the house at night later in the hope of fetching a certain amount to add to his oven — home made safe –and how it ends is stonoshing

My heart is a wanderer in love, may it ever remain so.My life’s been rendered miserable in love,may it grow more and more miserable.-Amir Khusrau

And then the common shepherd was asked how he knew the new Khalifah appointed was purehearted, kind and virtuous."" Because when the Head is crowned the glory of the power of his piousness does not allow the wild beasts to harm the meek sheep

Gazal by Rehana Yasmin-- reads When I seive through the wordsAn oasis sparkles within a dropStretching my wings I flapinviting life to come closerpassions of love--Shadows of deathEach burden crushing me downboth proofs of my existenceMirror or stone whichever i get to seeEtching my beloved in my every heartbeatYour memory forever carved inmay be my beloved equates higher than any esteemedI cherish his portrait withinReflecting the same Adam , the same original EveTo be born again yet differently in each one

Bhanwar by Dr Farid Sidiqi Huma Urdu Digest June is a cinematic story describing small towns of Allahbaad, Karachi and Dhaka before the partion, the story is based on the legend of snakeman, with a court scene debating legal aspects, the hindu temples in underwan and the chracter of bba Taj ul din are interesting cultural mix

No end to the journeyBy Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi(1207 - 1273)English version by Robert Bly
No end, no end to the journeyno end, no end neverhow can the heart in loveever stop openingif you love me,you won't just die oncein every momentyou will die into meto be rebornInto this new love, dieyour way beginson the other sidebecome the skytake an axe to the prison wall,escapewalk out like someonesuddenly born into colordo it now

The Gates (from Openings)By Zohar (Moses de Leon)(1245? - 1305)English version by Daniel Chanan Matt
He [Abraham] was sitting in the opening of the tent....Sarah heard from the opening of the tent. (Genesis 18:1, 10)Rabbi Judah opened"'Her husband is known in the gateswhen he sits among the elders of the land'(Proverbs 31:23).Come and see:The Blessed Holy One has ascended in glory.He is hidden, concealed, far beyond.There is no one in the world, nor has there ever been,who can understand His wisdom or withstand Him.He is hidden, concealed, transcendent, beyond, beyond.The beings up above and the creatures down below--none of them can comprehend.All they can say is:"Blessed be the Presence of YHVH in His place'(Ezekiel 3:12)The ones below proclaim that He is above:'His Presence is above the heavens'(Psalms 113:4)the ones above proclaim that He is below:'Your Presence is over all the earth'(Psalms 57:12).Finally all of them, above and below, declare:'Blessed be the Presence of YHVH wherever He is!'For He is unknowable.No one has ever been able to identify Him.How, then, can you say:'Her husband is known in the gates'?Her husband is the Blessed Holy One!Indeed, He is known in the gates.He is known and graspedto the degree that one opens the gates of imagination!The capacity to connect with the spirit of wisdom,to imagine in one's heart-mind--this is how God becomes known.Therefore 'Her husband is known in the gates,'through the gates of imagination.But that He be known as He really is?No one has ever been able to attain such knowledge of Him."Rabbi Shim'on said"'Her husband is known in the gates.'Who are these gates?The ones addressed in the Psalm:'O gates, lift up your heads!Be lifted up, openings of eternity,so the King of Glory may come!'(Psalms 24:7)Through these gates, these spheres on high,the Blessed Holy One becomes known.Were it not so, no one could commune with Him.Come and see:Neshamah of a human being is unknowableexcept through limbs of the body,subordinates of neshamah who carry out what she designs.Thus she is known and unknown.The Blessed Holy One too is known and unknown.For He is Neshamah of neshamah, Pneuma of pneuma,completely hidden away;but through these gates, openings for neshumah,the Blessed Holy One becomes known.Come and see:There is opening within opening,level beyond level.Through these the Glory of God becomes known.'The opening of the tent' is the opening of Righteousness,as the Psalmist says:'Open for me the gates of righteousness...'(Psalms 118:19).This is the first opening to enter.Through this opening, all other high openings come into view.One who attains the clarity of this openingdiscovers all the other openings,for all of them abide here.

Al-Baasit
The Expander, The Englarger, The One who constricts the sustenance by His wisdomand expands and widens it with His Generosity and Mercy.

Death Barged Inby Kathleen Sheeder Bonanno In his Russian greatcoat slamming open the door with an unpardonable bang, and he has been here ever since. He changes everything, rearranges the furniture, his hand hovers by the phone; he will answer now, he says; he will be the answer. Tonight he sits down to dinner at the head of the table as we eat, mute; later, he climbs into bed between us. Even as I sit here, he stands behind me clamping two colossal hands on my shoulders and bends down and whispers to my neck, From now on, you write about me.

Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?By Kabir(15th Century)English version by John Stratton Hawley and Mark Juergensmeyer
Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?Talk and talk and the real things get lost.Talk and talk and things get out of hand.Why not stop talking and think?If you meet someone good, listen a little, speak;If you meet someone bad, clench up like a fist.Talking with a wise man is a great reward.Talking with a fool? A waste.Kabir says: A pot makes noise if it's half full,But fill it to the brim -- no sound.

Floaterby Debra Nystrom —to Dan Maddening shadow across your line of vision— what might be there, then isn't, making it hard to be on the lookout, concentrate, even hear—well, enough of the story I've given you, at least—you've had your fill, never asked for this, though you were the one to put a hand out, catch hold, not about to let me vanish the way of the two you lost already to grief's lure. I'm here; close your eyes, listen to our daughter practicing, going over and over the Bach, getting the mordents right, to make the lovely Invention definite. What does mordent mean, her piano teacher asked—I was waiting in the kitchen and overheard—I don't know, something about dying? No; morire means to die, mordere means to take a bite out of something—good mistake, she said. Not to die, to take a bite—what you asked of me—and then pleasure in the taking. Close your eyes now, listen. No one is leaving.

Floaterby Debra Nystrom —to Dan Maddening shadow across your line of vision— what might be there, then isn't, making it hard to be on the lookout, concentrate, even hear—well, enough of the story I've given you, at least—you've had your fill, never asked for this, though you were the one to put a hand out, catch hold, not about to let me vanish the way of the two you lost already to grief's lure. I'm here; close your eyes, listen to our daughter practicing, going over and over the Bach, getting the mordents right, to make the lovely Invention definite. What does mordent mean, her piano teacher asked—I was waiting in the kitchen and overheard—I don't know, something about dying? No; morire means to die, mordere means to take a bite out of something—good mistake, she said. Not to die, to take a bite—what you asked of me—and then pleasure in the taking. Close your eyes now, listen. No one is leaving.

PaxBy D. H. Lawrence(1885 - 1930)
All that matters is to be at one with the living Godto be a creature in the house of the God of Life.Like a cat asleep on a chairat peace, in peaceand at one with the master of the house, with the mistress,at home, at home in the house of the living,sleeping on the hearth, and yawning before the fire.Sleeping on the hearth of the living worldyawning at home before the fire of lifefeeling the presence of the living Godlike a great reassurancea deep calm in the hearta presenceas of the master sitting at the boardin his own and greater being,in the house of life.

Ode on Dictionariesby Barbara Hamby A-bomb is how it begins with a big bang on page one, a calculator of sorts whose centrifuge begets bedouin, bamboozle, breakdance, and berserk, one of my mother's favorite words, hard knock clerk of clichés that she is, at the moment going ape the current rave in the fundamentalist landscape disguised as her brain, a rococo lexicon of Deuteronomy, Job, gossip, spritz, and neocon ephemera all wrapped up in a pop burrito of movie star shenanigans, like a stray Cheeto found in your pocket the day after you finish the bag, tastier than any oyster and champagne fueled fugue gastronomique you have been pursuing in France for the past four months. This 82-year-old's rants have taken their place with the dictionary I bought in the fourth grade, with so many gorgeous words I thought I'd never plumb its depths. Right the first time, little girl, yet here I am still at it, trolling for pearls, Japanese words vying with Bantu in a goulash I eat daily, sometimes gagging, sometimes with relish, kleptomaniac in the candy store of language, slipping words in my pockets like a non-smudge lipstick that smears with the first kiss. I'm the demented lady with sixteen cats. Sure, the house stinks, but those damned mice have skedaddled, though I kind of miss them, their cute little faces, the whiskers, those adorable gray suits. No, all beasts are welcome in my menagerie, ark of inconsolable barks and meows, sharp-toothed shark, OED of the deep ocean, sweet compendium of candy bars—Butterfingers, Mounds, and M&Ms— packed next to the tripe and gizzards, trim and tackle of butchers and bakers, the painter's brush and spackle, quarks and black holes of physicists' theory. I'm building my own book as a mason makes a wall or a gelding runs round the track—brick by brick, step by step, word by word, jonquil by gerrymander, syllabub by greensward, swordplay by snapdragon, a never-ending parade with clowns and funambulists in my own mouth, homemade treasure chest of tongue and teeth, the brain's roustabout, rough unfurler of tents and trapezes, off-the-cuff unruly troublemaker in the high church museum of the world. O mouth—boondoggle, auditorium, viper, gulag, gumbo pot on a steamy August afternoon—what have you not given me? How I must wear on you, my Samuel Johnson in a frock coat, lexicographer of silly thoughts, billy goat, X-rated pornographic smut factory, scarfer of snacks, prissy smirker, late-night barfly, you are the megaphone by which I bewitch the world or don't as the case may be. O chittering squirrel, ziplock sandwich bag, sound off, shut up, gather your words into bouquets, folios, flocks of black and flaming birds.

How Simile Worksby Albert GoldbarthThe drizzle-slicked cobblestone alleys of some city; and the brickwork back of the lumbering Galapagos tortoise they'd set me astride, at the "petting zoo".... The taste of our squabble still in my mouth the next day; and the brackish puddles sectioning the street one morning after a storm.... So poetry configures its comparisons. My wife and I have been arguing; now I'm telling her a childhood reminiscence, stroking her back, her naked back that was the particles in the heart of a star and will be again, and is hers, and is like nothing else, and is like the components of everything.

Dangerous Astronomyby Sherman AlexieI wanted to walk outside and praise the stars, But David, my baby son, coughed and coughed. His comfort was more important than the stars So I comforted and kissed him in his dark Bedroom, but my comfort was not enough. His mother was more important than the stars So he cried for her breast and milk. It's hard For fathers to compete with mothers' love. In the dark, mothers illuminate like the stars! Dull and jealous, I was the smallest part Of the whole. I know this is stupid stuff But I felt less important than the farthest star As my wife fed my son in the hungry dark. How can a father resent his son and his son's love? Was my comfort more important than the stars? A selfish father, I wanted to pull apart My comfortable wife and son. Forgive me, Rough God, because I walked outside and praised the stars, And thought I was more important than the stars.

Poetry as Insurgent Art [I am signaling you through the flames] by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
I am signaling you through the flames.
The North Pole is not where it used to be.
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.
Civilization self-destructs.
Nemesis is knocking at the door.
What are poets for, in such an age?What is the use of poetry?
The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.
If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds apocalyptic.
You are Whitman, you are Poe, you are Mark Twain, you are Emily Dickinson and Edna St. Vincent Millay, you are Neruda and Mayakovsky and Pasolini, you are an American or a non-American, you can conquer the conquerors with words....

Lullaby in Blueby Betsy Sholl The child takes her first journey through the inner blue world of her mother's body, blue veins, blue eyes, frail petal lids. Beyond that unborn brackish world so deep it will be felt forever as longing, a dream of blue notes plucked from memory's guitar, the wind blows indigo shadows under streetlights, clouds crowd the moon and bear down on the limbs of a blue spruce. The child's head appears— midnight pond, weedy and glistening— draws back, reluctant to leave that first home. Blue catch in the mother's throat, ferocious bruise of a growl, and out slides the iridescent body—fish-slippery in her father's hands, plucked from water into such thin densities of air, her arms and tiny hands stutter and flail, till he places her on her mother's body, then cuts the smoky cord, releasing her into this world, its cold harbor below where a blue caul of shrink-wrap covers each boat gestating on the winter shore. Child, the world comes in twos, above and below, visible and unseen. Inside your mother's croon there's the hum of an old man tapping his foot on a porch floor, his instrument made from one string nailed to a wall, as if anything can be turned into song, always what is and what is longed for. Against the window the electric blue of cop lights signals somebody's bad news, and a lone man walks through the street, his guitar sealed in dark plush. Child, from this world now you will draw your breath and let out your moth flutter of blue sighs. Now your mother will listen for each one, alert enough to hear snow starting to flake from the sky, bay water beginning to freeze. Sleep now, little shadow, as your first world still flickers across your face, that other side where all was given and nothing desired. Soon enough you'll want milk, want faces, hands, heartbeats and voices singing in your ear. Soon the world will amaze you, and you will give back its bird-warble, its dove call, singing that blue note which deepens the song, that longing for what no one can recall, your small night cry roused from the wholeness you carry into this broken world.

deer & salt blockby Joshua Marie Wilkinson
One boy is a liar & says there's a block of salt under his bed to draw deer in from the orchard. One boy says the pantry wall will open if you say an untold anagram of his name. One boy is already dressed when he wakes up for his young father's wedding. One boy hides a turtle from his brothers in a dresser drawer. One boy is mute & sluggish from the hurricane sirens. One boy took a long time in the bathtub reading the comics. One boy loops a tractor chain to the ceiling fan & tears the whole roof down. One boy speaks through a keyhole to the others about a shortstop's hex. One boy can't stand the scent of elevators. One boy gives different spellings for his name each week at school. That same boy stole his teacher's shoe. Another boy listens to a radio inside his pillowcase. One boy drinks coffee alone in the zookeeper's shed. The last boy casts a purple stone to the bottom of a pond & follows it down with his church clothes on.

The National Interestby Ted Mathys We are interested in long criminal histories because we've never bedded down in a cellblock. With the sibilance of wind through the swaying spires of skyscrapers as my witness. When I say cover your grenades I mean it's going to rain I mean there is mischief in every filibuster of sun.We are interested in rigorously arranging emotions by color as we've never been fully divested of blues. With drinking till my fingernails hurt as my witness, with hurt as my witness. When I say be demanding I mean be fully individual while dissolving in the crowd.We are interested in characters who murder because we've never committed it or to it. With an origami frog in a vellum crown spinning on a fishing line from the ceiling as my witness. When I say please kneel with me I mean between every shadow and sad lack falls a word.We are interested in ceaselessly setting floor joists because we've never pulled a pole barn spike from a foot. With bowing to soap your ankles in the shower as my witness, lather as my witness. When I say did you see the freckle in her iris I mean the poem must reclaim the nature of surveillance.We are interested in possessing others who possess that which we possess but fear losing in the future. With a fork as my witness. A dollop of ketchup, hash brown, motion, with teeth as my witness. When I say you I don't mean me I don't mean an exact you I mean a composite you I mean God.We are interested in God because we can't possess God, because we can't possess you. With a scrum of meatheads in IZOD ogling iPods as my witness, technological progress as my witness. When I say no such thing as progress in art I mean "These fragments I have shored against my ruins"We are interested in ambivalence as ribcages resist being down when down, up when up. With the swell of the argument and the moment before forgiveness as my witness. When I say power is exclusion I mean a box of rocks we don't desire to deduce I mean knowing is never enough.

O nobilissima viriditas / Responsory for Virgins
By Hildegard of Bingen(1098 - 1179)
English version by Barbara Newman

Most nobleevergreen with your rootsin the sun:you shine in the cloudlesssky of a sphere no earthlyeminence can grasp,enfolded in the claspof ministries divine.You blush like the dawn,you burn like a flameof the sun.

The eating bowl is not one bronzeBy Basava(1134 - 1196)English version by A. K. RamanujanThe eating bowl is not one bronzeand the looking glass another. Bowl and mirror are one metal Giving back light one becomes a mirror. Aware, one is the Lord's; unaware, a mere human. Worship the lord without forgetting, the lord of the meeting rivers.

When the call center he manages in Seattle is outsourced to India, Todd travels there to train his replacement. Housed in a new building that looks like an above-ground bunker, the call center is staffed by willing novices whom Todd trains to sound American. One star on the staff is Asha, who teaches Todd that he should learn about India,

sorrowsby
Lucille Cliftonwho would believe them winged who would believe they could be beautiful who would believe they could fall so in love with mortals that they would attach themselves as scars attach and ride the skin sometimes we hear them in our dreams rattling their skulls clicking their bony fingers they have heard me beseeching as i whispered into my own cupped hands enough not me again but who can distinguish one human voice amid such choruses of desire

Behold the glow of the moon By Shih-te (Pickup)(780? - 850?)English version by Red Pine (Bill Porter)
Behold the glow of the moonillumine the world's four quartersperfect light in perfect spacea radiance that purifiespeople say it waxes and wanesbut I don't see it fadejust like a magic pearlit shines both night and day