Literary Editor

Yesim Agaoglu. Born in Istanbul. Studied Istanbul University, Department of Archaeology and Art History. Master of arts degree at the same university, Faculty of Communications, Department of Radio-TV-Cinema.

Poems have been published in literary journals since the age of 18. Has seven poetry books published in Turkey and also two poetry books published in Azerbaijan and in 2016 and 2017  two poetry books has published in New York,USA. Poems translated into many different languages such as English, German, Spanish, Russian, etc.

Biographies are in some literature and art encyclopedias and poems in anthologies. Some of her essays are in collective books. Participated in numerous national and international literature and poetry festivals. Also, in 1998 she has been in Bangladesh, Dhaka, ‘‘Dar-ül İhsan English University 1 st  World Poetry Celebration Day’’ as a honor guest of Bangladesh PEN.

Her poems published in “Akzente  Literature Magazine” eleven pages in 2014 August issue in Munich. She has been nominated for Coburger Rückert-Preis 2016 in Germany.

She has a short theater play named “forbidden chirpings” staged at Hazar University, Baku,Azerbaijan.

Also has been continuing contemporary art activities combining different disciplines (especially poetry and language) since 1996. Participated in many solo and group exhibitions and biennials in countries like Germany, Norway, Italy, Bulgaria, Bosnia, Azerbaijan, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Korea, etc.


My eyes


he is afraid of my eyes, my eyes

of the distant ship that floats in their depths

he is as ugly as can be

my lovely beautity

he is without arms and legs,incomplete

ı'll make him whole

theres no end to thinking thoughts he says

no end to kissings and salutings and missings

and that's as it should be

but what about lovings?

he is caught in a trap he says

he'll escape and come

stepping one by one on colored heads 

trampling on them.

making contradictions gush out of their brain

he cant keep his eyes open,

so disgraced and furious he is

beer and gin and tonic

phones gross with vomit

distortions lived out at random hours

noises are getting louder within the house

ı wonder if the world got cracked up somewhere

ghosts are crowding in all around

my eyes

my eyes are galleons tossed by the storm.



Age of metallic loves


ı know you miss me, so

ıll send you the second me soon.

ıll be all dressed up in iron armour

ıll record my voice on cds

the voice proclaiming my love for you

my image on harddiscs

so lovely and posed just as you like it

were in the age of metallic loves

wake up already were after indestructibleness

we will bend deaths wrist yet

push the keys of your computer

and youll get my meaning

ıve shut us up tight inside it

our dnas and rnas belong to it now

ask and youll get all the answers about us

have you been missing my smell

soon it too will come to you

ıtll wing its way to you over the distances

flowers did you say,

ıll be sending you bouqets of roses

heavenly smelling roses of iron

dont say you dont want them we are

ın the age of metallic loves after all.


Sweettalking the fairy


o, fairy who makes that master write poems

my call is clear, no ceremony,

having sharpened your wings just drop in,

even if youre wet from the rains

your tea is made, coffee if you wish

and if youre cold, your wings frozen from the snow

my wine is warm, so is my home

we could even make it springtime

my window is open

my room fragrant with roses

or come in summertime if you wish

let it be scorching hot

lets share an ice cold water melon

spread your hair across my room

o, fairy whomakes that master write poems

come with your sharpest wings

my secrets are sacred

ı wont tell anyone that youve been here.



Do not ask me anything


youve never seen thomas rays shop

never seen the figures he makes

all negro, all wood

dark things go on in that shop at night

as stark dark as a negro

dont ask cause ı dont know very much either

being a stranger in these parts.

you havent seen madame kayes shop either

a shop from the 193os

only womens intimate wear is sold there

satin, silk and lace underwear of all colors

at night weird men come and go there

what goes on ı dont know either

dont ask cause ım a stranger in these parts


ı can see your shadow stalking me

dressed in jealousy

sliding along  pitch-dark walls

reminding me that ım living wrong

fire at the tip of my tongue

my hair ablaze

explosions in my eyes

betrayal at the roots of my hair

please do not ask me anything,

 cause ım a stranger in these parts.


De ja vu


we never dwelled in the same cities

never got mired in the same smogs

he always had ports

and toy sailors of his own.

whereas what ı had were bridges

forever uncrossed

we never sailed our boats in the same poems

never frequented the same tales

our movies also were never the same

ın his, the star marlene dietrich mostly

even the bars we patronised were not alike

his being dark and reached down by stairs

whereas mine all lit up deliriously

most strange because according to him,

ıt felt as if wed known each other of old




Spring time in andalusia


they left their roses behind, when they went

their violets and their loquat plums

geraniums on balconies

and nightingales in cages

ever singing across the sea

to make their vocies heard

church bells instead of the ezan

echo within the mosques now

from the fountains water flows sadly

and the women are not there anymore

beautious women balancing water jugs on their heads

along the narrow streets are still heard

the sound of ceramic dishes and

wafting all around, the saffron mixed aromas

and the sadness they left behind.

dust and chaos everywhere

the age has surrendered long since

they got on their horses,

their strong arab steeds and took off

leaving mostly roses behind them

never  have ı seen such profusion of lovely roses anywhere. 

Gianfranco Aurilio was born in Rome, Italy. After graduating in a Humanities-centred secondary school, he earned his Law degree from the University of Rome. He has written thirteen collections of poetry and his poetry has been published in several national and international anthologies and magazines.



Soldier of war


“Hold me

for just one more night

before I leave

to become a soldier of war

and don’t cry tonight.

Keep your tears

and sow them

by the lime-tree

in the shade of which

I loved you.

I will come back to pick the shoots

and adorn your hair

before the fruit

of your womb is born.”

Years went by

shoots blossomed

and every day a child

comes and picks a leaf

to put it under his pillow

and fall asleep saying

“Good night, Dad.”



Our virtues


I saw the stars

of the Big Dipper

from the city

and then I went to the seaside,

hoping to see them again

and they were there

waiting for me.

I asked them how they had managed

to get there before me

and they replied

that one must

stay still and steady

if they want to run fast.



In silence


I was in the forest

and there was silence

all around me.


just for a moment

I stopped to listen

in silence to the silence

and I heard

a brook flowing

an acorn falling

a bird singing

the wind caressing the leaves

a squirrel squeaking

the grass stirring

the branches waving

twigs snapping.

Just for a moment


I started walking again


no longer in silence.



Under a mantle of stars


Under a mantle of stars

I lay myself down

to listen to the silence

which was calling me from above.

I wandered through the sky

looking for the end of it

without being able to imagine it

and only then

I stopped trying to understand.



Our road


Each of us has

our own road to travel

but it's up to us

to embellish the roadside

with flowers and fragrances

and fill it with trees

so we can walk in the shade.



The smile of the sky


“I'm smiling at you.”

the sky said to me

but there was only a quarter moon

and I didn't understand.

“Bow your head.”

he then said to me.

“One needs to be able to see

from every angle

in order to find beauty

where it seems like there is none.”

I bowed my head

and the sky was smiling at me.

Mariángel Gasca Posadas. Agua Dulce, Veracruz, México. Poet, essayist, translator, craftswoman and cultural manager. Teacher normalist, BENM. Mediator of Reading Rooms of PNSL. His texts have been published in their books of poems, in addition to 1 epistolary and 17 anthologies, supplements and cultural magazines published in África, Spain, Italy, Colombia, Perú, Chile, Bolivia, USA and México. Founder of the rock band "El paraje de los lobos", with young exconvicts, 1989. Creator and general director of the International Reading Festival "Agua Dulce caracola", 2012, 2015 and 2018.
Moon of blood
On having restarted the codes of the memory,
I discover the prologue previous to me itself.
There, after naming to love, I stay
as an immobile scenario that marvels
in the Universe. In this atmosphere
of dazzle, already I am not any more
only the other one that reads me
-interrogante anxiety that travel through my shores-.
Storm in calm. Calm in the storm.
Join extremes without being and without being,
as claw detached from the flesh
in front of his mirror fountain: Moon of blood,
torch between my fingers what stain
the fresh paper with his lips and kisses
with its winter breath my autumn
that still blooms in spring. Unfold
the mystery of life; run the shadow and
It denies the uncertain of my chiaroscuro notes.

As a cat with hunger, the moon inhabits me
Deciphering me with his seven lives
Jaguara of the lost Paradise
Before her the amazement slips
and initiates the subtle game of the shadows.
Silence. Green tender in amber eyes
travel the sap clarified by their footprints,
footprints of fierce loneliness
read as intimate poem
of the quiescence. Everything kept silent the immense jungle,
nobody sleeps …stalks
stalks the life in the death
the ceiba unfurl the night
in the most matted of his leaves light,
belated light that undresses when falling the briefness of the time.
Isolated among its branches, without knowing what they think,
look devour the day to night, and the night to day;
what remains of the hunt, is part of another paradise
where it is not customary to give condolence.
Cosmic Fantasy
The lucid madness crosses the heart of desire.
Castaways of me the memories
they cry in solitude the delirious hours
of love, crossword puzzles unanswered
whispers insomniac
that copulate dreams
since the abode of the soul
for if I return
for if I return wake up again... I me seeing
to rain
to the beloved in per Se,
in Me, in Sol

360 °


360 degrees…
I have been alone
Days and nights
ghosts spit,
already I do not know myself.

360 º nothing moves
nor is touching. God!
An ancient mask conceals The Everything.
360 º and the epicentre
you´re still you
zero point
of the conscience


Your silence, burn


Once again life bursts

desolate the Universe is left.

Tañe his weeping in black hole

Zurze his heart in other suns.

Bite the light years of heartbreak

Burn the silence ... you don't know how much.

The stars scrawl oblivion.


Naked of time, your image

becomes mirror


Rakhim Karim (Karimov) - Uzbek-Russian-Kyrgyz Soviet poet, writer, publicist, translator. Born in 1960 in the city of Osh (Kyrgyzstan). Graduate of the Maxim Gorky Moscow Literary Institute (1986). Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, member, official representative of the International Federation of Russian-speaking Writers in Kyrgyzstan (London-Budapest), member of the IFRW Board, member of the Union of Writers of Russia, laureate of republican literary prizes named after Moldo Niyaz, Egemberdi Ermatova. Laureate of the International Association of Writers named after Peter Bogdani (Brussels - Pristina). Laureate of the Swami Vivekananda International Peace Prize (India). Doctor of Philosophy (Morocco). Ambassador of the World Children's Movement for Central Asia. Member of the World Haiku Association (Japan). “Poet of the Year - 2019” (Demer Press Publishing House, Netherlands). Winner of the Osh regional contest "Altyn Kalem -2003". The author of the national bestseller “Camila”, winner of the second prize of the International Book Forum Open Central Asia Book Forum & Literature Festival - 2012 (Great Britain), nominee for the Russian national literary prize “Poet of the Year 2013, 2014, 2015”, “Heritage 2015, 2016”, Prizes to them. S. Yesenina (2016). In 2017, he was awarded the silver medal of the Eurasian Literature Festival LiFF in the nomination “Eurasian Poet”, the medal “Kyrgyz Tili” of the State Commission on the State Language under the President of the Kyrgyz Republic. Co-chair of the Literature Council of the Eurasian Peoples' Assembly. The author of more than 40 books of original, translated poetry and prose. His books have been published and published in Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Ukraine, Belarus, Russia, Azerbaijan, Great Britain, Canada, Mongolia, Romania, Greece, the Netherlands, Zimbabwe, India, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Albania, Belgium, Pakistan, the Republic of China, Japan, Mexico, Venezuela, Poland, Macedonia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Afghanistan, Spain, France, USA, Colombia, Germany and other countries of the world in Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Russian, Tajik, English, Ukrainian, French, Spanish , romanian, ital Jansky, Hindi, Bengali, Dutch, Greek, Persian, Pashto, Dari, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese, Macedonian, Serbian, Albanian, Croatian, Bosnian, Montenegrin, Slovak, Azerbaijani, Turkish and other languages ​​of the world.

Translated poetry and prose into Uzbek, Russian, Kyrgyz and English by authors from Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Russia, Tajikistan, Mongolia, Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, the Netherlands, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, Romania, Poland, Macedonia, Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Iran, Luxembourg, Denmark, USA, Slovakia, Mexico, Iraq, etc.

The author of more than 20 popular patriotic songs in Uzbek, Kyrgyz, Russian, written together with composers of Kyrgyzstan, Russia, Ukraine, Uzbekistan and Germany.





There is no time to set out beautifully, -
I do not have time to tell the truth!
Without unnecessary phrases, I am called to create here, -
It’s enough for me to link a few words!


Sorry oh beautiful words
Because I am not so sick of you!
I love simple words! Maddened
Me, after all, the Queen - Simplicity !!!


It’s easy for me and simple, funny
Forgive me and you grammar!
I adore the naked Truth
She is my love, Romance !!!





War is the bestial face of people
War - their vampire mask, brink.
War is a battle of base ideas
War - violence, murder, abuse!


War is a confrontation of dirty feelings
War is a competition of evil minds.
War is loss, death, horror and sadness
War is eye hate, house fire!


War - there is commercialism, greed, pain,
War - orphan hood, widowhood, hunger, fear.
War - bombing, blood, shooting, fire,
War is hell, where human victims are dust!


War is atom, radiation,
War is a bacterium, and torture is a sin ...
War - a riot of tanks, aircraft,
War is a victory: savagery success!


(War is a defense, I’m not arguing, no,
War, but still a virus, the root of evil.
War is a crime, a response,
War is war, which it was not !!!).


War, leave us humans alone
War, we all have one World - Light!
War is chaos, the death of sunny days,
War is the end of dawn and darkness is dawn!





What does ash mean? The ashes cried out
Once, giving soul?
Not grown, not created,
It is a day that went out, the light went out.


Under it you will not bury the remains, -
The winds will be dispelled, they will race off with it.
As I recalled myself here,
Questions in my heart are pounding:


Will I become ash one day? Ashes?
And will conscience become dust one day?
And the heart with a tender flower faded -
Will the heart of a child in me wither?


I will not idly fly in the wind!
I will create a flowering garden
I'll blaze with light, half day light
Let the garden forever rustle with leaves!





What a blessing to come to visit
To friends, with a wonderful poem!
And treat guests with a good toast,
Quince jelly - a verse-jam!


What a blessing, oh, to write poetry, -
Compose a melody from juicy rhymes.
And regale friends so dear
Green tea from the petals of the rhythm!


What a happy life to live in verse
Breathe, love Poetry - Muse!
Put my years into a poem
Both sin and joy are bright bonds!





How we love to blow, bomb
The poor earth is suffering.
When we learn to love
Take care, guard - Mother!


Throw bombs on Her
She gives flowers in return.
Digging, cutting, burning, spitting,
She promises in return fruit.


Shakes our cradle, -
Without sleep, spinning day and night.
We stomp Her breasts, a bed,
We are ungrateful - son and daughter!


We are fighting on Her, the army,
Carelessly shedding blood.
In return, like a loving mother,
She will embrace again ...





Forests are burning, alas, the globe,
The animal world needs help.
Botany, zoology from the heat,
Suffer: geography and weakness ...


When a fire in the forest, people say,
Everything burns there in a row: dry, wet ...
In the fire - the roar of a lion, an elephant and a cry of a deer,
The moan of ant, grass, trees, soil throughout.


Tigers are helpless in the forest today,
Mercy ask: wolves howling on coal!
Where the bear games remained in the fire
Save as you can, flora, fauna in our century.


Give wings, God, hares and raccoons,
Give the birds an opportunity to fly away.
Give salvation to mushrooms, forest bounties,
Let us see beauty again!


Oh, have pity on your creature children
My soul burns in fire.
Forgive us, the Sun, the sky, our Creator,
Do not punish us, under us peace, ruin.

Raed Anis Al-Jishi born in Qatif, Saudi Arabia. He has an honorary fellowship in writing from Iowa university-USA . A member of advisory committee of exquisite Teacher training plan of national Changua University of Education-Taiwan . He has translated 5 books. And published one novel, nine volumes of poetry in Arabic( last one was translated into French) and one Bleeding Gull: Look, Feel, Fly, in English( this book was translated into Serbian,Vietnamese and Italian languages and win the best translated book in Italy in different occasions. A lot of his single poems were translated to many languages.



A selection of poems from Raed Anis Al-Jishi’s 

Genesis of Dignity: The Impact of the Arab Spring ] 

Translated by Amira Rammah 


The Arrival of Seagulls


I have seen gulls,

in holy visions,

hover and invent

the sound of horses.


I have seen them

give alms to rats

hungry for crumbs of bread,

crucified on the altar.


I have seen them

flap their wings and swallow

common rules of fish.

Reinvent the physics

of a silver talisman’s dance

on the sea’s curve.


I have seen rats

feast at the fall of dusk.

They claim to be the genesis of light.




A Dance of Bullets


If out of passion I strained my heart,

it doesn’t matter.

You crossed each alley

of my inner streets -

mirrored the dream

running through my veins,

and from my garden,


the love grown

from a pear tree.


If I offer you roses

distilled from my blood

and if, in your honor

I play the anthem of salvation

with my heart’s beats,

it doesn’t matter.



it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter if

all you could offer me is

a dance of bullets.





No borders for bounty,

with a thousand parties and factions,

and woes crown kings of passion.


I’m all & nothing

for the great & worthy belong

only to the free word.


Leave me then.

I chose mirrors

as a mode of reflection

and will -

a compass for my path.



The Genesis of Clay


I wear clay masks

made out of sapless soil.

Call on the storm cloud

chained by the bleak cold

to join the thrill of the newborn wind

on a pearl

muffled with pride.





Baffled Gunpowder



Baffled, the gunpowder disparages you

With what pride did God mold your hands?


Each time, you called on Death

upon their divine revelations,

Death prostrated itself and prayed

like the heavens for your sake.




On Love & Death



I’ll surrender to Love

if that’s her wish

My hand reaches out

to stroke her shadow

resting by twilight's woes

As I doze, I open one eye

trace in my memory

the shape of her little smile.

I saw her eyelids frozen to a prayer.

I could love,

I could love and die her way.

JAMES SUTHERLAND-SMITH was born in Scotland, but lives in Slovakia. He has published seven collections of his own poetry the most recent being “The River and the Black Cat” published by Shearsman Books in 2018. He also translates poetry from Slovak and Serbian for which he has received the Slovak Hviezdoslav Prize and the Serbian Zlatko Krasni Prize.

His translations include selections from the work of Slovak poets Ján Buzassy, Mila Haugová, Pavol Janík, Ivan Laučík and Milan Rúfus and Serbian poets Ivana Milankov and Miodrag Pavlović. Selections of his translations of Mária Ferenčuhová’s Slovak poetry and Rajko Dzaković’s Serbian poetry were also published in 2018 and a second selection of translations of the poetry of Mila Haugová is about to be published in Britain by Arc Publications as well as a selection of the poetry of Ján Gavura in Slovakia.

His eighth collection, Small Scale Observations, is in preparation as is a selection of from the Serbian poet, Ivanka Radmanović.





Outside cold drags us down to minus ten degrees.

I’ve yet to shake the snow from our conifers

beyond which the streets run parallel to one another

their vanishing point under steep hills once patched

with orchards never lit by the orange street lamps.


No-one walks out, though on the radio a dance

from heat quickens on a guitar to abandon,

sounding where snow falls rarely on the glossy leaves

of orange trees growing in long parallels

and even then it turns to vapour upon the grass.


The guitarist’s fingers could be at minus ten degrees,

their touch exact and gentle as the falling snow

on strings not quite parallel to one another

where the notes walk out like folk acquainted

with one another shading their eyes against the light.





Our world today is melting.

The red arcs of the creeper

bend and shake with beaded light

continually sliding

to the point where a twig ends

its own non-Euclidean form,

so water drops on to mulch

which stirs under the impact.


Now your hair is much thicker.

You’ve washed, dried and twisted it

into a braid whose gold sparks

with light when you comb it out

and my gaze is held there by

electro-magnetic force.






I saw a snake swimming in the stream.

It moved in time with the minute changes

of the ripples over silt and pebbles.

So at first I thought it was a reed

or a long wild iris leaf folded double.


But then it seemed to tilt of its own accord

against the cool current and I made out its head

as it broke the surface then paused,

a mottled yellow like a linden bud,

on a stepping stone’s rough, warmer edge.


It withdrew once more into the water

so nonchalantly at ease in the cold

until the liquid and mineral mutter

accelerated and the snake rolled

sideways to slip between tree roots in the bank.


I left the cabin that night with you to look

first at the stars and meteors burning up

in the atmosphere of our dying planet,

then watched the stream with its scintillants of light,

the tail-end of a galaxy shaped like a snake.


There was rustling near us. It was not the creep

of a mouse. It was too continuous, too slight

like a breath avoiding words which wait on the tip

and back of our tongues so that language fails

and stays unformed in the dark heat of our throats.





The signs were there for all to see.

Red ants raised little dirt volcanoes

from cracks in the gazebo’s masonry.


Fruit dropped from creaking trees on cue

each windfall more circular than the last

and colouring to a blush’s hue.


Our manuscripts were carelessly left out.

Their ink ran like witch’s blood and scorched the grass

so nothing healthy would ever sprout.


The laurel was transformed by ill will.

Wind could not stir leaves which yet moved

when the air was absolutely still


as though they were lips round dark mouths

babbling above mould and loam where neither

bird hopped nor lizard scuttled. Truths


beyond our hearing’s pitch were uttered.

We slowed the noise down octaves, reversed it.

All we heard was meaningless mutter.





Who will tumble from the sky

and be arrested in my garden

disentangling themselves from a parachute?


Who will thrust up through the soil

and brush crumbs from their heads and shoulders

staring goggle-eyed waist deep in our cabbage patch?


And who will flit like a bat

intent on catching moths and midges

claiming they are between heaven and the earth?


None of my friends, I suspect,

though of those who are outrageous

some still love their wives, some still believe in God.


We look up at shooting stars.

The ground beneath our feet is unmoved.

Something dark in the air shies by very fast.







































FIVE POEMS FROM “The River and the Black Cat”




The trees have devised an alphabet of colour.

The river nurses a favourite vowel

over hieroglyphs of shadow and small stones.

Yellow and green is the business of the day

although the black cat denies this

leaping from branch to branch in the apricot

as if blackness and points glittering

from the sunlight in her fur had nothing to do

with our language where syntax rattles its bones.

We regard and whisper nonsense

over the clauses of each other’s bodies

to confirm we are landscapes within

or landscapes without, trees without leaves

or blossom, flowering heads without

petals or colour, scent the breeze has brought

from somewhere we can never locate.




All at once more considered,

more leisurely, more constructed,

over time less inspired,

less impetuous, less improvised,

the garden comes alive at appointed places,

brown, violet, pink velvet buds,

nature imitating the unnatural,

staked, pruned, espaliered,

a language on its best behaviour,

voices practising a nuance,

hands splaying their fingers to make a point,

smiles not residing in the eyes,

laughter deliberately musical,

a heart breaking with perfect manners

unlike the river unruly with melting ice

while slightly elsewhere between little

avenues of rose twigs the black cat trots

with the first song of spring in her jaws.









A headless thrush brought in for breakfast,

the black cat more than usually companionable,

unseen, unheard the river conveys greetings

from the Holy Roman Empire to the court of France

despite the raucous manners of jay and magpie,

the calloused hands of the executioner grasping an axe,

a would-be lover having to comprehend that No means No

while the garden begins to flourish before its due time,

the apricot breaking out into white and pink

and you and I embrace naked heedless of the open window.




Our journey to the centre of the earth

begins without the clean-living white hunter,

without the absent-minded professor,

his devoted person-of-colour servant,

his critical daughter, virginal

obsessive cleaner of test tubes.

You require somebody who always leaves

the toilet seat down. I require somebody

who always laughs sincerely at my jokes.

The language synchronizes with the earth

and opens its golden fissures into which

we dive speaking unintelligible tongues.

Crust, mantle, magma are exposed as myths.

The river is a surface expression

of underground idioms and jargon.

The black cat frisks over continents

of extinct animal sounds to join us.





The Golden Age is once more upon us,

sunshine alternating with bouts of rain,

the black cat sheltering in the shed,

the river surly with reminiscences of the hills.

You and I, too, are fire and water,

our faces perfect shining miniatures

in drops of water, our kisses vapourising

with a tang like wine spilt on a hot stove.


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সম্পাদক | Editor

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Tareq Samin

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লেখা পাঠাবার জন্য


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