She was called a bride
before she was called a girl.
Mother sits beside me, I do not know where her mind revels. Then she flings herself up, eating air, muttering words. Women amongst the sympathizers had followed her into the kitchen. Where they held her by each arm, retrieving whatever thing was in her right palm.
Hands reach us. Hands are good things.
To be an elder brother is to never be fully prepared of what circumstance would require breaking principles, of what sacrifice you would have to offer in the next waking moment.
This rock I speak of is my father,
Unbroken, steadfast, like no other.
The cloud hovered perpetually
over the inlet’s wake,
best keep an eye on it.
Fictitious truths are wandering,
Filthy actions are trending,
I have lost the hope for light,
Fed up of my life due pretending
Because, if nobody’s going to fight for her,
She’ll set the world on fire herself—
Not to destroy,
But to make them finally see her in the light.
We are pleased to announce the winners of the 2025 Brigitte Poirson Literature Prize (BPLP), following a highly competitive selection process.
