Voices 2012

Voices

Voices Volume 6

Convent of the Sacred Heart 1177 King Street Greenwich, CT 06831 Phone: (203) 531-6500 www.cshgreenwich.org

i.

Emma Leary

Editorial Board Claudia Khoury, Editor-in-Chief Jeannette Sucre, Co-Editor Taylor Blevin, Associate and Layout Editor Staff Bianca Chiappelloni Audrey Moukattaf Alexa DeAlessandrini Katie Martinez Sarah Hirshorn Nicole Polemeni-Hegarty Faculty Advisor Graziella Sidoli Special Thanks Kevin Donnelly Kim Raisbeck Karl Haeseler World Languages Department Arts Department James Ritch, Graphic Management Partners

ii.

VOICES Volume 6 June 2012 STATEMENT OF PHILOSOPHY The education of each student at Convent of the Sacred Heart is founded on the commitment to the Goals and Criteria of the Network of Sacred Heart Schools. One such principle encourages students to be “active and informed” in today’s global world. Voices, a multilingual art and literary magazine, encourages each young woman to express her creative energy. It highlights student perspectives through prose and poetry in six different languages and multi-media artwork.

This magazine is created by a dedicated group of students who give a louder voice to these languages by selecting writing and artwork from their student body. Translation is an essential creative element of the magazine, and each foreign language piece faces an English version to broaden the understanding of the written works.

iii.

Colleen Henn

iv.

v.

Taylor Blevin

Table of Contents Cover Emma Leary, Watercolor Title Page i Emma Leary, Watercolor Staff and Statement of Philosophy Emma Leary, Watercolor

ii

Artwork iv Taylor Blevin, Digital Photography

French 1 Katie Colford, Watercolor Les yeux Modigliani, Claudia Khoury Whitney Rose Terry, Digital Photography

2

Ma famille, Margaret Dunne

Kayla Souza, Digital Photography

4

Les couleurs du printemps, Audrey Moukattaf

6

Artwork 7 Colleen Henn, Digital Photography Artwork 8 Eymire Prieto, Cray Pas Femmes de mon pays, by Nadia Tueni Audrey Moukattaf

10

Artwork 11 Emma Leary, Ink Artwork 12 Nora Henrie, Ink

Arabic 15 Colleen Henn, Digital Photography Artwork 16 Marian Ziminski, Ink From the Song of the Rain, by Khalil Gibran 18 Jeanne-Marie Fishkin, Emily Hirshorn, and Audrey Moukattaf Artwork 19 Holly Geffs, Digital Photography I am the East, by Ameen Rihani Morgan Kennedy

20

English 25 Giulia Campana, Oil on Canvas Natural Envy, by Claudia Khoury Jeannette Sucre Taylor Blevin, Digital Photography

26

Echo, by Nora Henrie 28 Holly Geffs, Digital Photography I Have Lost You, by Nicole Zoulis Holly Geffs, Digital Photography

32

Spanish 35 Bianca Chiappelloni, Digital Photography Soy Anticipación, Alexa de Alessandrini 36 Colleen Henn, Digital Photography

Las banderas, Ashleigh McGrath 38 Maddie Cron, Digital Photography Del trópico, by Rubén Darío 40 Kelsey Schmidt and Julie Goodfriend Colleen Henn, Digital Photography Inspired by “Del trópico,” Elizabeth Juan and Claudia Khoury

43

El riesgo, Jane Gerstner 44 Maddie Cron, Digital Photography La vista desde una mota de polen, Krystyna Miles Taylor Blevin, Digital Photography

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Yo soy inconformista, Sarah Hirshorn Maddie Cron, Digital Photography

50

Yo no soy quien crees, Lucy Adams

52

Observaciones , Maddie Pillari 54 Holly Geffs, Digital Photography

Chinese 57 Sarah Furth, Watercolor Scholastic Regional Silver Key Winner

Women, Fiona Cavise and Molly Scudder 59 Colleen Henn, Digital Photography If You See Me Or Not, Tibetan Poem Morgan Kennedy Holly Geffs, Digital Photography

60

Center of My World, Nicole Polemeni-Hegarty Giulia Campana, Oil on Canvas

62

You Are the April of my World, by Lin Weiyin Nicole Polemeni-Hegarty Taylor Blevin, Digital Photography

64

Artwork 66 Sarah Furth, Charcoal

Latin 67 Contentio, Alex Jordan 68 Katie Colford, Cray Pas Artwork 70 Giulia Campana, Cray Pas Artwork 72 Katie Colford, Colored Pencil Riddles, Molly Flynn 73 Artwork 74 Sarah Drumm, Ink Production Notes 78 Artwork 79 Katie Colford, Colored Pencil

Franรงais French

1

Katie Colford

Les yeux Modigliani Claudia Khoury Elle avait les yeux Modigliani.

Deux bateaux marrons, naviguant une mer amande.

Le clignement de ses yeux provoquait un raz-de-marée.

Le battement de ses cils entraînait le roulement des vagues.

Son éclat, son reflet faisait reculer la marée.

Son regard, son expression rendait la mer immobile.

Elle avait les yeux Modigliani.

Navires dérivant, glissant, sur la mer amande.

2

Modigliani Eyes English version by the author She had Modigliani eyes.

Chestnut brown ships, navigating an almond-shaped sea.

The blink of her eye caused a tidal wave.

The bat of her eyelashes made the waves rise and roll.

Her squint, her glare made the tide recede.

Her stare, her gaze made the sea go static still.

She had Modigliani eyes.

Ships drifting, gliding, in the almond-shaped sea.

3

Whitney Rose Terry

Ma Famille Margaret Dunne La rame coupe l’eau, rapide, acérée, pure.

Le soleil se lève – projetant sur l’eau des reflets bleus, roses et oranges.

D’un effort commun, le bateau prend de la vitesse, et perce la rosée du matin.

Huit filles : une équipe, une barque, une famille.

4

My Family English version by the author The oar slices the water, quick, sharp, clean.

The sun rises – casting its mesmerizing blue, pink, and orange on the water.

With a united effort, the boat picks up speed, and pierces through the early morning dew.

Eight girls: one team, one boat, one family.

5

Kayla Souza

Les couleurs du printemps Audrey Moukattaf Rose c’est ce qui fait battre le cœur, les pastels des fleurs de cerisiers qui adoucissent l’air, les porcelets qui se reposent avec leur mère, le coucher de soleil grandiose qui met le monde au repos.

Bleu c’est ce qui vous donne la paix, les hortensias qui semblent flotter sur leurs tiges, les geais bleus qui montent en flèche vers le ciel, les eaux fraîches qui coulent à travers la terre.

Jaune c’est ce qui vous donne de l’énergie, les jonquilles qui poussent de la terre, les abeilles qui recueillent le pollen, le soleil qui fournit la vie.

Les couleurs du printemps sont ce qui vous donne de la joie : les plantes qui poussent, les animaux qui vivent, les éléments de la nature.

Les couleurs du printemps font le bonheur.

6

7

Colleen Henn

88.

Eymie Prieto

The Colors of Spring English version by the author Pink is all that makes the heart flutter, the pastel cherry blossoms that sweeten the air, the piglets that lie by their mother, the expansive sunset that puts the world to rest.

Blue is all that gives peace, the hydrangeas that float from their stems, the blue jays that soar in the sky, the cool waters that flow through the land.

Yellow is all that gives energy, the daffodils that bud from the ground, the buzzing bees that collect pollen, the bright sun that provides life.

The colors of spring are all that give joy: the plants that grow, the animals that live, the elements of nature.

The colors of spring are pure bliss.

9

Femmes de mon pays Nadia Tuéni Femmes de mon pays, une même lumière durcit vos corps, une même ombre les repose; doucement élégiaques en vos métamorphoses.

Une même souffrance gerce vos lèvres, et vos yeux sont sertis par un unique orfèvre.

Vous, qui rassurez la montagne, qui faites croire à l’homme qu’il est homme, à la cendre qu’elle est fertile, au paysage qu’il est immuable.

Femme de mon pays, vous, qui dans le chaos retrouvez le durable.

10

11

Emma Leary

12

Nora Henrie

Women of My Country English version by Audrey Moukataff Women of my country, a similar light stiffens your bodies, a similar darkness lets them rest; gently mournful in your alteration.

A similar suffering chaps your lips, and your eyes are set by a unique goldsmith.

You, who put the mountain to ease, who make men believe they are men, who persuade ash that it is fertile, who tell the land that it is immortal.

Women of my country, it is you who find strength in the chaos.

13

14

Arabic

15

Colleen Henn

16

Marian Ziminsky

‫ﺍﻏﻨﻴﺔ ﺍﻟﻤﻄﺮ‬ ‫ﻣﻦ ﺩﻣﻌﺔ ﻭﺍﺑﺘﺴﺎﻣﺔ‬ ‫ﺟﺒﺮﺍﻥ ﺧﻠﻴﻞ ﺟﺒﺮﺍﻥ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﺎ ﺧﻴﻮﻁ ﻓﻀﻴﺔ ﺗﻄﺮﺣﻨﻲ ﺍﻵﻟﻬﺔ ﻣﻦ ﺍﻷﻋﺎﻟﻲ‬ ‫ﻓﺘﺄﺧﺬﻧﻲ ﺍﻟﻄﺒﻴﻌﺔ ﻭﺗﻨﻤﻖ ﺑﻲ ﺍﻷﻭﺩﻳﺔ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺍﻧﺎ ﻵﻟﻰء ﺟﻤﻴﻠﺔ ﻧﺜﺮﺕ ﻣﻦ ﺗﺎﺝ ﻋﺸﺘﺮﻭﺕ‬ ‫ﻓﺴﺮﻗﺘﻨﻲ ﺍﺑﻨﺔ ﺍﻟﺼﺒﺎﺡ ﻭﺭﺻﻌﺖ ﺑﻲ ﺍﻟﺤﻘﻮﻝ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺍﻧﺎ ﺍﺑﻜﻲ ﻓﺘﺒﺘﺴﻢ ﺍﻟﻄﻠﻮﻝ‪ ،‬ﻭﺃﺗﻀﻊ ﻓﺘﺮﺗﻔﻊ ﺍﻻﺯﻫﺎﺭ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺍﻟﻐﻴﻤﺔ ﻭﺍﻟﺤﻘﻞ ﻋﺎﺷﻘﺎﻥ ﻭﺍﻧﺎ ﺑﻴﻨﻬﻤﺎ ﺭﺳﻮﻝ ﻣﺴﻌﻒ‬ ‫ﺃﻧﻬﻤﻞ ﻓﺄﺑﺮﺩ ﻏﻠﻴﻞ ﻫﺬﺍ ﻭﺍﺷﻔﻲ ﻋﻠﺔ ﺗﻠﻚ‪.‬‬ ‫ﺻﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﺮﻋﺪ ﻭﺃﺳﻴﺎﻑ ﺍﻟﺒﺮﻕ ﺗﺒﺸﺮ ﺑﻘﺪﻭﻣﻲ ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻭﻗﻮﺱ ﻗﺰﺡ ﻳﻌﻠﻦ ﻧﻬﺎﻳﺔ ﺳﻔﺮﺗﻲ‪،‬‬ ‫ﻛﺬﺍ ﺍﻟﺤﻴﺎﺓ ﺍﻟﺪﻧﻴﺎ ﺗﺒﺘﺪﻯء ﺑﻴﻦ ﺃﻗﺪﺍﻡ ﺍﻟﻤﺎﺩﺓ ﺍﻟﻐﻀﺒﻰ‬ ‫ﻭﺗﻨﺘﻬﻲ ﻋﻠﻰ ﺍﻛﻒ ﺍﻟﻤﻮﺕ ﺍﻟﻬﺎﺩﻯء‪.‬‬

‫ﺍﺩﺭﻱ ﻣﻜﺘّﻒ‬ ‫ﺍﻣﻴﻠﻲ ﻫﻴﺮﺷﻮﺭﻥ‬ ‫ﺟﻴﻦ ﻣﺎﺭﻱ ﻓﺸﻜﻦ‬ ‫‪17‬‬

From Song of the Rain

by Khalil Gibran English version by Jeanne-Marie Fishkin, Emily Hirshorn, and Audrey Moukattaf I am silver drops falling from the heavens.

Nature leads me to garnish her fields and valleys I am the precious pearls, taken from Ishtar’s crown by the daughter of Dawn to dress the gardens.

If I cry, the hills will laugh.

If I humble myself, the flowers will rejoice.

If I bow, then all things are elated.

The cloud and the field are lovers, and I am the messenger between them.

I satisfy the thirst of one, I cure the sickness of the other.

The crash of thunder preaches my arrival, the rainbow announces my departure.

Like life, my voyage begins with a roar And ends with harmony‌ 18

19

Holly Geffs

‫الشرقالشرق‬ ‫الشرق أنا‬ ‫أنا أنا‬

‫الرٌحانً‬ ‫الرٌحانً‬ ‫أمٌن‬ ‫الرٌحانً‬ ‫أمٌن أمٌن‬ ‫ودٌةاألودٌة‬ ‫هتاف‬ ‫ودٌةاأل‬ ‫هتاف‬ ‫قصٌدة‬ ‫قصٌدة األ‬ ‫هتاف‬ ‫قصٌدة من‬ ‫من من‬ ‫الشرق الشرق‬ ‫أنا‬ ‫أنا‬ ‫أنا الشرق‬ ‫هٌاكل هللا‬ ‫فً هللا‬ ‫هٌاكل‬ ‫هٌكل‬ ‫فً هللا‬ ‫هٌاكل‬ ‫ألول‬ ‫فًهٌكل‬ ‫الزاوٌة‬ ‫ألول‬ ‫الزاوٌةهٌكل‬ ‫حجر‬ ‫أنا ألول‬ ‫الزاوٌة‬ ‫أنا حجرأنا حجر‬ ‫االنساناالنسان‬ ‫االنسانعروش‬ ‫عروش‬ ‫عرش من‬ ‫عروش‬ ‫وألول من‬ ‫عرش‬ ‫وألول من‬ ‫وألول عرش‬ ‫الجنان الجنان‬ ‫الرأي ثابت‬ ‫ثابت‬ ‫قوٌمالجنان‬ ‫الرأي‬ ‫ثابت‬ ‫كنً‬ ‫قوٌم‬ ‫الرأي‬ ‫كنً ول‬ ‫الظهر‬ ‫قوٌم‬ ‫الظهر ول‬ ‫محنً‬ ‫ترانً ولكنً‬ ‫محنً‬ ‫لذلكالظهر‬ ‫ترانً‬ ‫لذلكمحنً‬ ‫لذلك ترانً‬ ‫مسالشمس‬ ‫جسر‬ ‫أناالش‬ ‫مس‬ ‫أنا جسرأناالشجسر‬ ‫االنواراالنوار‬ ‫االنوار الدائمة‬ ‫ئمة‬ ‫االفالك‬ ‫االفالك الدا‬ ‫ئمة‬ ‫االكوانالداالى‬ ‫االفالك‬ ‫االكوان الى‬ ‫ظلمات‬ ‫االكوان الى‬ ‫ظلمات‬ ‫ظلمات اعماق‬ ‫اعماق‬ ‫من من‬ ‫من اعماق‬ ‫جمٌلةة جمٌلة‬ ‫ًة مكا فأ‬ ‫فأ‬ ‫جمٌلة‬ ‫فئن‬ ‫وتكامكا‬ ‫ً‬ ‫كتفًافئنفأة‬ ‫وتكامك‬ ‫علىً‬ ‫كتفًفئن‬ ‫وتكا‬ ‫ٌوم‬ ‫على‬ ‫كتفً‬ ‫ٌومكل‬ ‫تصعد‬ ‫على‬ ‫ٌوم كل‬ ‫تصعد‬ ‫تصعد كل‬ ‫ذهب الفجر‬ ‫منالفجر‬ ‫ذهب‬ ‫الفجر‬ ‫نفسً‬ ‫ذهبمن‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫نفسً‬ ‫من‬ ‫ٌدي‪،‬‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫نفسً‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫ٌدي‪،‬‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫جٌوبً‪،‬‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫ٌدي‪،‬‬ ‫جٌوبً‪،‬‬ ‫فً‬ ‫جٌوبً‪،‬انوفً‬ ‫فً‬ ‫أجل انأجل‬ ‫أجل ان فً‬ ‫االرض كلها‬ ‫االرض كلها‬ ‫معادن‬ ‫االرض كلها‬ ‫معادن‬ ‫نظٌر له فً‬ ‫فً‬ ‫معادن‬ ‫نظٌرالله‬ ‫فً‬ ‫نظٌرالله ما‬ ‫ما ال ما‬ ‫والجنانوالجنان‬ ‫والجنانالبصر‬ ‫البصر‬ ‫وتزود منً‬ ‫منً‬ ‫البصر‬ ‫وتزود‬ ‫حال‪،‬‬ ‫حال‪،‬ترمنً‬ ‫وتزود‬ ‫الشمس لل‬ ‫حال‪،‬تر‬ ‫الشمس لل‬ ‫تزودنً‬ ‫الشمس للتر‬ ‫تزودنًتزودنً‬ ‫حركاتهاحركاتها‬ ‫حركاتهاتبصر‬ ‫ال‬ ‫تبصر‬ ‫لكواكب‬ ‫تبصرال‬ ‫لكواكب‬ ‫دائمة‪ ،‬كا‬ ‫لكواكب ال‬ ‫دائمة‪ ،‬كا‬ ‫فًكارحلة‬ ‫رحلة‬ ‫دائمة‪،‬‬ ‫ثباتً‬ ‫رحلةفً‬ ‫على‬ ‫فًثباتً‬ ‫وانا‬ ‫على‬ ‫وانا علىواناثباتً‬ ‫بالجوزاء‬ ‫بالجوزاء‬ ‫لٌتصل‬ ‫بالجوزاء‬ ‫لٌتصل‬ ‫لٌتصل نفسً‪،‬‬ ‫نفسً‪،‬‬ ‫القافلة‪ ،‬قافلة‬ ‫قافلة‬ ‫القافلة‪،‬نفسً‪،‬‬ ‫اول‬ ‫القافلة‪،‬انقافلة‬ ‫ان اول ان اول‬ ‫رها آخرها‬ ‫آخ اٌن‬ ‫الٌوم‬ ‫اٌن‬ ‫ادريرها‬ ‫الٌوم‬ ‫اٌن آخ‬ ‫لست‬ ‫ادري‬ ‫الٌوم‬ ‫وآخرها‪-‬‬ ‫لست‬ ‫وآخرها‪-‬ادري‬ ‫وآخرها‪ -‬لست‬ ‫لٌفا ً‬ ‫مستكشفا ً‬ ‫ربوللٌفربول‬ ‫أبواب‬ ‫ربوللٌف‬ ‫فً‬ ‫أبواب‬ ‫مستكشف‬ ‫فً‬ ‫أبواب‬ ‫واقفا‬ ‫ٌكونا ً فً‬ ‫مستكشف‬ ‫ٌكوند واقفا‬ ‫قد ٌكونقدواقفا ق‬ ‫سمرقندسمرقند‬ ‫الٌاسمٌن فً‬ ‫سمرقند‬ ‫الٌاسمٌن فً‬ ‫عرائش‬ ‫الٌاسمٌن فً‬ ‫عرائش‬ ‫عرائشا ً تحب‬ ‫نائم‬ ‫نائما ًاوتحب‬ ‫او نائما ًاوتحب‬ ‫ضفاف النٌل‬ ‫ضفاف النٌل‬ ‫على‬ ‫جاداًالنٌل‬ ‫ضفاف‬ ‫جاداًاوعلى‬ ‫او جاداً اوعلى‬ ‫اوضائعا ً‬ ‫اوضائعا ً‬ ‫نٌوٌورك‬ ‫نٌوٌورك‬ ‫االبٌضاء فً‬ ‫نٌوٌورك‬ ‫االبٌضاء فً‬ ‫السكة‬ ‫االبٌضاء فً‬ ‫فً‬ ‫السكة‬ ‫فً‬ ‫السكة‬ ‫اوضائعا ً فً‬ ‫مطمئنمطمئن‬ ‫مطمئن رضً‬ ‫رضً‬ ‫ولكنً قنوع‬ ‫قنوع‬ ‫ولكنًرضً‬ ‫ولكنً قنوع‬ ‫بصر قادتها‬ ‫بصر مقادتها‬ ‫فاننً‬ ‫القافلةمقادتها‬ ‫فاننً‬ ‫ساقةمبصر‬ ‫القافلة‬ ‫ارىفاننً‬ ‫ساقة‬ ‫القافلة‬ ‫ارىال‬ ‫كنت‬ ‫وانالساقة‬ ‫ارى‬ ‫وان كنتوانال كنت‬ ‫المساء المساء‬ ‫االجراس عند‬ ‫عند‬ ‫المساء‬ ‫االجراس‬ ‫عند‬ ‫طنطنة‬ ‫االجراس‬ ‫طنطنة‬ ‫السمع السمع‬ ‫طنطنة‬ ‫انً انً‬ ‫انً السمع‬ ‫صباح مسلما‬ ‫صباح مسلما‬ ‫كل‬ ‫مسلما‬ ‫ٌجٌئنً‬ ‫كل‬ ‫صباح‬ ‫ٌجٌئنً‬ ‫الرسول‬ ‫ٌجٌئنً كل‬ ‫الرسول‬ ‫وصوت‬ ‫الرسول‬ ‫وصوتوصوت‬ ‫لٌومً لٌومً‬ ‫جدٌد ألبسة‬ ‫ألبسة‬ ‫لٌومً‬ ‫وب‬ ‫جدٌد‬ ‫ألبسة‬ ‫ٌدي ث‬ ‫وب‬ ‫جدٌد‬ ‫وفً‬ ‫ٌدي ث‬ ‫وفًوب‬ ‫وفً ٌدي ث‬ ‫الشرق الشرق‬ ‫انا‬ ‫انا‬ ‫انا الشرق‬ ‫الزمان الزمان‬ ‫الزمان موكب‬ ‫موكب‬ ‫شبح فً‬ ‫موكب‬ ‫شبح فًشبح فً‬ ‫الحٌاة الدنٌا‬ ‫موكب الدنٌا‬ ‫الحٌاة‬ ‫موكبالدنٌا‬ ‫فً‬ ‫فً الحٌاة‬ ‫فً موكب‬ ‫المقدسةالمقدسة‬ ‫المقدسةاالماكن‬ ‫االماكن‬ ‫وٌتراجع فً‬ ‫االماكن‬ ‫وٌتراجع فً‬ ‫لوات‬ ‫الخ فً‬ ‫وٌتراجع‬ ‫لوات‬ ‫الخ فً‬ ‫ٌضج‬ ‫لوات‬ ‫صوت فً‬ ‫الخ‬ ‫صوتفًٌضج‬ ‫صوت ٌضج‬ ‫وٌمألسكونا ً‬ ‫سكونا ً ط ٌَبا‬ ‫تقواي ً ط ٌَبا‬ ‫سكونا‬ ‫جبالط ٌَبا‬ ‫تقواي‬ ‫جبال‬ ‫الصحراءتقواي‬ ‫وٌمأل‬ ‫الصحراءجبال‬ ‫وٌمأل‬ ‫ٌحدو فً‬ ‫الصحراء‬ ‫صوتفً‬ ‫صوتفًٌحدو‬ ‫صوت ٌحدو‬ ‫رغبة جدٌدة‬ ‫أدواتك جدٌدة‬ ‫رغبة‬ ‫أدواتكجدٌدة‬ ‫اذن‬ ‫رغبة‬ ‫اذنفً‬ ‫أدواتك‬ ‫ٌهمس‬ ‫اذن فً‬ ‫ٌهمس‬ ‫ص وت‬ ‫ت فً‬ ‫ٌهمس‬ ‫ص وت ص و‬ ‫مستطلعا ً‬ ‫مستطلعا ًمستطلعا ً‬ ‫ومغزاهاومغزاها‬ ‫قصدها‬ ‫ومغزاها‬ ‫قصدها‬ ‫قصدها‬ ‫سالما ً‬ ‫سالما ً‬ ‫صوتً‬ ‫المقدسةالمقدسة‬ ‫المقدسةاالنهر‬ ‫االنهر‬ ‫المٌاه فً‬ ‫فً‬ ‫االنهر‬ ‫وجه‬ ‫فًالمٌاه‬ ‫على‬ ‫وجه‬ ‫المٌاه‬ ‫على‬ ‫وجه‬ ‫ٌتماوج‬ ‫ٌتماوجعلى‬ ‫ٌتماوج سالما‬ ‫صوت صوت‬ ‫دٌانات دٌانات‬ ‫وعنديوعندي‬ ‫دٌانات‬ ‫وعنديفلسفات‬ ‫فلسفات‬ ‫فلسفات عندي‬ ‫الشرق‬ ‫الشرق عندي‬ ‫انا‬ ‫انا عندي‬ ‫انا الشرق‬ ‫طٌاراتطٌارات‬ ‫ٌبٌعنً بها‬ ‫طٌارات‬ ‫ٌبٌعنً بها‬ ‫فمن بهافمن‬ ‫فمن ٌبٌعنً‬

‫مرغن كندي‬ ‫مرغن كندي‬ ‫مرغن كندي‬

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I am the East

by Ameen Rihani English version by Morgan Kennedy I am the East I am the cornerstone of the first temple of God And the first throne of humanity You may see me as subservient, but I am honest within my heart and soul I am the bridge of the sun From the depths of the darkness of the universe to the constant shining stars Every day rises on my shoulder and rewards me with an offering of beauty Yes, within my pockets, within my hands, and within myself, there is the golden dawn Incomparable to the minerals of the earth The sun grants me a clear vision within my soul to depart

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I am always dressed awaiting my journey like the planets with their constant revolutions The first caravan, the caravan of myself, is for connecting to the Gemini And the last, today, I do not know where it ends It may be standing as an explorer at the doors of Liverpool Or asleep under bowers of jasmine in Samarkand Or on the banks of the Nile Or lost among the white railway in New York But I am happy and convinced I do not see the rear of the caravan, yet I view its leaders I can hear the bells toll in the evening And the voice of the Prophet welcomes me every day As in my hands, I hold a new robe to wear for the day.

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I am the East A phantom in the procession of time In the way of this temporal life I am a voice that rises in retreat and rests in holy places I am a voice that echoes in the deserts, filling the mountains with sweet silence I am a voice that whispers in your ear with new desire Exploring the significance of this endeavor I am a voice that glides with peace on the surface of the sacred waters I am the East I have philosophies and religion Who would exchange them for technology?

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24

English

25

Giulia Campana

Natural Envy Claudia Khoury Are the leaves envious of the petals that bloom?

Is the smoke ever jealous of the fire’s thick fume?

Are the creaks covetous of the sea vast and grand?

Is the soil resentful of the soft, soothing sand?

Are the shrubs spiteful of the trees trimmed and tall?

Is the rain ever indignant of the hail’s power and gall?

These parts of nature, distinct in size and scale, all serve an equal role, as the earth’s protective veil.

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La envidia natural Spanish version by Jeannette Sucre ¿Son las hojas envidiosas de los pétalos que florecen? ¿Es el humo celoso del vaho denso del fuego? ¿Son los crujidos codiciosos del gran y vasto mar? ¿Es la tierra agraviada de la suave, calmante arena? ¿Son los arbustos vengativos de los árboles recortados y altos? ¿Es la lluvia indignada del poder y hiel del granizo?

Estos aspectos de la naturaleza, distintos en tamaño y escala, todos sirven un papel igual, como velo protector del mundo.

27

Taylor Blevin

Echo Nora Henrie You. I am talking to you.

I am speaking to those of you who carelessly hurl your words into inky, icy chasms.

Who dribble your voices through empty city streets.

The hollow, the empty and the bitter ones.

The sad and crumbling, silky and sorrowful, Who penetrate the dark with your tongues clipped, like the wings of delicately powerful birds, stuffed in cages, robbed of their union with the air. Â I shudder when you whisper.

When you waste that precious morsel of delicious existence, true power, that is pecking at your hearts, caged in your chests, longing to beat its wings.

Stalled on your jaded, cruel tongues.

I am waiting.

I wallow in crevices, waiting for you to crank up the volume, Waiting.

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Waiting for you to spread your wings.

Spread them as wide as you can, so that I might eat the loose feathers.

When you whisper, well I am wracked with hunger.

I am shackled to your words.

Do not force me to repeat the mundane, and do not mumble sparks of meaning, but let your tongues be consumed with flame, give me the chance to say something real.

I am carved out, scooped clean of my purpose.

At least grant me the chance to taste your desires.

Let me mirror the beautiful, the meaningful, and the things that simply must be said.

Give me the chance to shrug my sore, achy shoulders as if they were the wings, which I used to use to fly…

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Holly Geffs

Écho French version by the author Vous. Je vous parle.

Je suis en train de parler à ceux parmi vous qui lancent sans soin vos paroles dans des gouffres couverts d’encre et de glace.

Qui bavent vos voix par les rues urbaines vides.

Celles qui sont trompeuses, vides et amères.

Les tristes et effondrantes, soyeuses et douloureuses Qui pénètrent les ténèbres avec vos langues taillées comme les ailes d’oiseaux délicatement puissants bouchés dans des cages, violés de leur union avec l’air.

Je tressaille quand vous chuchotez.

Quand vous gaspillez ce morceau précieux de l’existence déli cieuse, la puissance véritable, qui pécore vos cœurs, pris dans vos poitrines, désirant battre ses ailes.

Callé sur vos langues blasées et cruelles.

J’attends.

Je me vautre dans des crevasses attendant que vous montiez le volume et je m’accroche à des gorges,

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Attendant Attendant que vous déployiez vos ailes Les déployiez aussi étendues que possible de sorte que je puisse manger les plumes desserrées Quand vous chuchotez, je suis consommée de faim.

Je suis collée à vos paroles Ne me forcez pas de répéter ce qui est banal et ne marmonnez des étincelles de sens, mais permettez que vos langues soient consommées de flamme, donnez-moi la chance de dire quelque chose de réel Je suis taillée, creusée de mon but Au moins donnez-moi la chance de goûter à vos désirs.

Permettez-moi de refléter le beau, le signifiant, et les choses qui doivent tout simplement être parlées Donnez-moi la chance de hausser mes épaules endolories, comme si elles étaient des ailes que, d’autrefois, j’utilisais pour voler...

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I Have Lost You Nicole Zoulis I have lost you engulfed by the foam of the waves, drowned by the wails of the animals.

They have abducted you, yet you have left willingly.

You have eaten the lotus flower, I cannot save you.

I can only watch you from afar, as you run beside death, run beside danger.

And I, I sit across the ocean.

On another planet, in another world, you are lost.

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Greek version by the author Σ’ έχω χάσει Στον αφρό των κυμάτων, Πνίγhkeς stouς qoroίbouς twν zώwν. Σας έχουν απαχθεί, kaι esύ, fέugeiς diatedeimέnη. Έfageς tο louloύdι toυ lwtoύ; deν mporώ nα sε sώsω.

Monο mporώ nα sε parakolouqώ apο makriά , kaqώς trέceiς dίplα qάnatο kaι kίndunο.

Kaι egώ, κ άqomaι pέrα apο twν wkeanό Sε κ άpioν άlloν planήtη, Σ’ έnaν άlloν kόsmο, Έceiσ caqέι.

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Holly Geffs

34

EspaĂąol Spanish

35

Bianca Chiappelloni

Soy Anticipación Alexa de Alessandrini Soy Anticipación – el momento después del presente, la promesa del futuro, el gran misterio de lo que pasará.

Soy una artista enrollada en mis pensamientos, una escritura enamorada de mis palabras, una bailarina, con ritmo que nace en mi corazón – todavía no sé cómo usarlos.

Soy masa de pan, esperando la levadura, una manzana al borde de la madurez, un núcleo de palomitas de maíz, que no ha estallado – y sueño despertar, con una nueva sensación.

Soy una manta fresca de nieve blanca, sin huellas, un árbol que anhela florecer, un pajarito, que ansía su primer vuelo – y con esperanzas de elevarme.

Y un día yo ya no seré Anticipación, seré Satisfacción, Promesa – Vida.

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I am Anticipation English version by the author I am Anticipation – the moment after the present, the promise of the future, the mystery of what will happen beyond.

I am an artist wrapped in my thoughts, a writer enchanted by my words, a dancer, with rhythm in my heart – I don’t know how to use them yet.

I am the dough, waiting for yeast, an apple on the edge of ripeness, a bud of corn about to burst – I dream too of awakening, with a new sensation.

I am an untouched blanket of snow, a tree yearning to bloom, a bird, longing for my first flight – and I await my chance to soar.

And one day I will no longer be Anticipation, I will be Satisfaction, Promise – Life.

37

Colleen Henn

Las Banderas Ashleigh McGrath Nunca pensé que iba a acabar así.

Parecía que se habían recién conocido.

Se miraron una vez más al saludarse, él sonrió, admirando a su novia perfecta.

Luego llegó el día cuando tuvieron que irse, la pequeña Sofía todavía no echaba los dientes.

Jóvenes esposos que se fueron, con sus anillos y sus herretes, ahora otra vez vuelven juntos, envueltos en banderas.

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Flags English version by Claudia Khoury It should not have happened this way, It seems like they met just yesterday.

Exchanged looks while saluting, side by side, he smiled, for she made the most beautiful bride.

Then the day came when they had to leave, Little Sophie had not yet begun to teethe.

Husband and wife sent out together, wearing rings and tags, now they return together, side by side, wrapped in flags.

39

Maddie Cron

Del Trópico Rubén Darío ¡Qué alegre y fresca la mañanita!

Me agarra el aire por la nariz: los perros ladran, un chico grita y una muchacha gorda y bonita, junto a una piedra, muele maíz.

Un mozo trae por un sendero sus herramientas y su morral: otro con caites y sin sombrero busca una vaca con su ternero para ordeñarla junto al corral.

Sonriendo a veces a la muchacha, que de la piedra pasa al fogón, un sabanero de buena facha, casi en cuclillas afila el hacha sobre una orilla del mollejón.

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Por las colinas la luz se pierde bajo el cielo claro y sin fin; ahí el ganado las hojas muerde, y hay en los tallos del pasto verde, escarabajos de oro y carmín.

Sonando un cuerno corvo y sonoro, pasa un vaquero, y a plena luz vienen las vacas y un blanco toro, con unas manchas color de oro por la barriga y en el testuz.

Y la patrona, bate que bate, me regocija con la ilusión de una gran taza de chocolate, que ha de pasarme por el gaznate con la tostada y el requesón.

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English version by Kelsey Schmidt and Julie Goodfriend What a bright and blissful early morning!

The crisp air tickles my nose: the dogs yelp, the boys play and a girl, plump and pretty, pounds corn with a stone.

A boy scurries down a path bringing with him, his tools and pack: another with sandals and without a hat looks to milk a cow and her calf.

He flashes a smile with a newfound desire at a girl walking by the fire, a herder with a stunning face squatting whilst sharpening his hatchet all the while, still on his chase.

The light gets lost in the hills the sky is clear without end; the cattle nibbles at the leaves, and in the green pasture, rest beetles of amber and red.

Breathing into a horn, arched and sonorous, the man passes, tending the herd, in the sunlight are cows and a white bull their bellies and skull painted the color gold.

The woman of the house, stirs as she delights me with the illusion of a copious cup of chocolate, which, with toast and soft white cheese, will satisfy my craving.

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Inspired version by Elizabeth Juan and Claudia Khoury Oh the early morning ablaze with brilliance!

I taste the thick air in my lungs: the dogs bark, the men bellow and a voluptuous young maiden grinds the corn with a sharpened stone.

A lad walks along the road, equipped with his tools, his knapsack: his companion follows without sandals or hat in search of a cow and calf to milk by the corral.

He sometimes smiles at the girl, as she churns beside the fire, he notices her mesmerizing beauty as he squats and whets the axe – he admires her silhouette, her grandeur.

The hills hide the light under the clear vast sky, the animals chew on the leaves and on stalks of green grass, amber carmine beetles crawl.

A curved horn makes a sound, the boy passes amidst the light, he is surrounded by cows, by bulls all colored with golden spots, from head to toe.

The maiden approaches, I rejoice, my eyes grow in awe she is like a cup of hot chocolate that floods down my throat, along with toast and cottage cheese.

43

Colleen Henn

El riesgo Jane Gerstner

Está harta. Cierra los ojos, esperando que cuando los abra, todo estará mejor. Pero sólo exprime al cabo una o dos lágrimas, y las captura con la lengua. Rápidamente, se seca las mejillas, se levanta, y escucha. No oye nada. Se mueve sigilosamente por las escaleras, silenciosa como un ratón, su corazón latiendo con fuerza en el pecho. Está temblando; sus axilas están húmedas con miedo.

“Por favor, que todo esté bien,” piensa. “Por favor, que todo esté bien.”

Parece que hay millas entre ella y la sala de estar mientras camina. Finalmente lo ve, tumbado en el sofá con su boca abierta, atrapado en un profundo sueño. Inmóvil.

Está al lado de él ahora, puede ver sus párpados aletear, oler el monstruo en su aliento. Con cuidado se inclina hacia la mesa y agarra la copa, fría contra sus palmas sudorosas. Está medio llena con el líquido dorado que brilla bajo la luz de la lámpara cercana.

Mete su dedo en la copa y se lo pone en la boca, sabiendo ya lo que probará. Casi se amordaza en la acritud familiar, la decepción estableciéndose en el fondo de su estómago.

Frustrada, echa el resto en el fregadero. Lo mira desaguar, girando con el agua del grifo, hacia abajo, abajo, abajo. Cuando enjuaga la copa, su esperanza baja en espiral, abajo, abajo al desagüe.

Salta al sonido de su padre gimiendo y moviéndose. Nerviosa, sus venas palpitando, deja la copa y corre a su cuarto.

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Es difícil pensar, respirar. Después de un momento, se sienta y con un suspiro, escribe. Escribe todos sus sentimientos.

Escribe todo de lo que nunca tuvo el valor de decir. Escribe hasta que le duelen las manos, hasta que la pluma se burla de ella. Hasta que está agotada y eventualmente, se duerme.

En la mañana, toma un riesgo que no podrá olvidar. Arriesga su vida futura con su padre. Su mamá podría echarla si se entera; es posible que no le permita dormir en la casa de su padre nunca más. Su hermana y ella tendrán visitas supervisadas, por un par de horas con él cada semana.

Arriesga la relación entre su papito y ella. Imagina su reacción al leer la carta; puede ver un mundo de dolor en su cara. Le había parecido a él por muchos años inobservante, privado de los conocimientos de los efectos de alcohol. Cuando él la lea, sabrá que comprende la diferencia entre la cerveza y un “refresco”. Sabrá que a veces, ella siente que las hijitas no importan más para él, solo el beber. Una chica que tiene doce años necesita más.

Solo quiere que él sea feliz. Sabe que no puede obligarlo a sonreír, pero por lo menos tratará de hacerlo. Tratará de ayudarlo a ver el arco iris que sigue la tormenta, la gracia salvadora de su miseria.

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Maddie Cron

The Risk English version by the author

She is fed up. She closes her eyes. She hopes that when she opens them, everything will be better. But instead, she lets out a tear or two and catches them with her tongue. Quickly, she wipes her cheeks, gets herself up, and listens. She does not hear anything.

She moves silently down the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest, her body trembling, drenched in sweat.

“Please be okay,” she thinks to herself. “Please be okay.”

It seems like there are miles between her and the living room while she walks. Finally, she sees him, sprawled on the couch with his mouth open, trapped in a deep sleep. Immobile.

She is next to him now, she can see his eyelids flutter, she can smell the monster on his breath. Carefully she leans towards the table and grabs the cup, cold against her warm, moist palms. It is filled halfway with a golden liquid – a golden liquid that shines below the light of a nearby lamp. She dips her finger in the cup and puts it in her mouth, already knowing what she will taste. She almost gags on the familiar acridity, as misery settles to the bottom of her stomach.

Frustrated, she pours the rest in the sink. She watches it swirl down with the water from the faucet – down, down, down.

When she rinses the cup, her hope spirals downward too, down, down the drain.

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She jumps at the sound of his moaning and fidgeting. Nervous, her veins throbbing, she abandons the cup and runs to her room. It is hard for her to think, to breathe. After a moment, she sits and begins to write. She writes all of her feelings. She writes everything that she has never had the courage to say. She writes until her hands hurt, until the pen mocks her, until she becomes exhausted. Eventually, she falls asleep.

In the morning, she takes a risk that she will never forget.

She risks her future life with him. She risks the relationship between him and her. She imagines his reaction upon reading the letter; she can see a world of pain in his face. She had seemed to him for years inobservant, preserved from the knowledge of the effects of alcohol. But when he reads it, he’ll know that she understands the difference between beer and “soda.” He’ll know that sometimes, she feels as if she is less important to him than the drinking.

She just wants him to be happy. She knows that she can’t force him to smile. She wants him to know that a rainbow will follow the storm, that there will be a saving grace to his misery. She takes a risk, by writing the letter and giving it to him. She takes a risk, by writing the letter and giving him the truth.

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La vista desde una mota de polen Krystyna Miles Esperando, sentada sobre un diente de león con la caricia suave de mi familia.

Allá yo crecí.

Llegué al chorro del viento.

Frío, fuerte, vigorizante al comienzo.

Me destruyó.

Pero el tiempo pasó.

La brisa se calentó.

Me llevó, me dispersó.

Sin expectativas.

Yo no sabía dónde estaba ni adónde iba.

La esperanza es todo lo que tengo.

De repente la tierna caricia de la brisa paró.

Flotando por el aire, libre.

Lista para la próxima aventura.

Todavía no he aterrizado – por ahora sólo esperando estoy, esperando sembrar las semillas de mi ser.

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The View From a Speck of Pollen English version by Jeannette Sucre Waiting, resting on a dandelion, with the gentle embrace of my family.

The place I grew up.

I arrived at the wind stream.

Cool, strong, invigorating at the start.

It tore me apart.

But time passed.

The breeze gained warmth.

It enveloped me, it dispersed me.

Without expectations.

I did not know where I was or where I was headed.

Hope is all I depend on.

Suddenly the tender caress of the breeze was halted.

Floating through the air, free.

Ready for the next adventure.

I have yet to land – for now I am only waiting, waiting to plant the seeds of myself.

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Taylor Blevin

Yo soy inconformista Sarah Hirshorn Yo soy inconformista, la sociedad no se adhiere a mí y yo no adhiero a la sociedad.

El molde del cortador de galleta no puede dar forma a la masa de mi ser – creo mi forma propia.

Las jaulas restrictivas grandes no pueden capturarme – construyo mis propias fronteras.

El lienzo de la vida de otros no influye en el mío – pinto mi propio futuro.

La luz del faro no es mi guía, sólo sigo mi brújula interna.

Soy singular, elusiva, Yo soy yo.

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I Am a Non-Conformist English version by the author I am a non-conformist, society does not adhere to me and I do not adhere to society.

The cookie cutter mold cannot shape the form of my being – I create my own form.

The large restrictive cages cannot capture me – I construct my own borders.

The canvases of others does not influence my art – I paint my own future.

The beam of a lighthouse does not guide me, I follow my own compass.

I am singular; elusive, I am me.

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Maddie Cron

Yo no soy quien crees Lucy Adams

Yo no soy quien crees que soy. Yo camino por todas partes.

Todo el tiempo. Mis piernas están cansadas, mis tobillos se hinchan, tengo cicatrices de astillas en los pies.

Me escapé del incendio caminando. Mi ropa desgarrada, estaba cubierta de ceniza. Chispas caían de los bordes crujientes de mi pelo enmarañado. Con un soplo cerré los ojos y todo desapareció.

Cuando me ves estoy vestida en mi uniforme. Soy como todo el mundo, a veces hasta me siento ser como todo el mundo. Luego imágenes de luz rota bailan en frente de mí como un millón de ojos.

Yo estoy en un universo tan diferente que tú no puedes verlo.

La semana pasada tú pasaste a mi lado cuando yo estaba caminando. Por un segundo viste quien realmente soy. Sólo por un segundo. Yo no soy quien crees que soy. Yo camino por todas partes, por muchos caminos. Todo el tiempo.

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I am not who you believe I am English version by the author

I am not who you think I am. I walk everywhere. All the time. My legs get tired, my ankles become swollen, my feet scar from splinters.

I escaped from the fire by walking. My clothes were torn and covered with ash, embers fell from the crisped edges of my tangled hair. But I blinked and they all disappeared.

When you see me I am in my uniform. I look like everyone else, sometimes I even feel like everyone else, but images of broken light dance before me like a million eyes. I am in a different universe and you cannot even tell.

Last week you rode past me while I was walking. For a second you saw who I really was. Just for a second. I am not who you think I am. I walk everywhere. All the time.

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Observaciones Maddie Pillari

Es oscuro cuando salgo, pero no demasiado oscuro para las sombras. El negro pálido que cubre el mundo esta noche es una obra incompleta - aún puedo ver las grietas de la pared de ladrillo a mi derecha, aún siento el sabor amargo de las palabras. Palabras no dichas, que parecen más feas y más duras en esta oscuridad Me imaginaba la noche como la miel, fluyendo entre las hendeduras de la acera. Una sustancia que se demoraba en llegar, pero cuando lo hacía, la oscuridad que dejaba en su lento camino era absoluta y llenaba todos los hoyos y las imperfecciones del mundo.

He aprendido que la noche no es tan poderosa y mucho menos distinta.

El día y la noche no son tan separados como nos gustaría creer. Ese segundo que separa la puesta del sol y el retorno de la luna - cuando el cielo es de ese sorprendente color índigo – ese instante permanece mucho más de lo que pensamos. El intermedio, el limbo, el purgatorio de las veinticuatro horas que llamamos un día, pueden seguir y seguir, hasta que lo que es día y lo que es noche ya no se puede distinguir.

Me pregunto cuánto tiempo podrá durar esta farsa.

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Observations English version by the author

It is dark when I step outside, but not too dark for shadows.

The black that blankets the world does an incomplete job – I can still see the cracks in the brick wall to my right, I can still taste the bitter, unspoken words that lie on my tongue. These unsaid phrases seem uglier, harsher in the darkness.

I used to imagine the night as molasses. It was an entity that seeped into the crevices of the sidewalk. It was a substance that was slow to come, but left a sluggish, absolute trail. It was an element that filled all the holes and imperfections that existed. But I have learned that the night is far less powerful, far less distinct.

I have come to see that the night and the day are not as separate as we might like to believe. The split second between the sunset and the rise of the moon – when the sky is that striking indigo – lingers longer than we think. The in-between, the limbo, the purgatory of the twenty four hours that we call a day can stretch on, and on, until what is day and what is night can no longer be distinguished.

How long will this charade go on?

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Holly Geffs

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Chinese

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Sarah Furth

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Women English version by the authors The daffodil is born, she captivates the mind, her passion flares with the rising sun, flaming leaves fall but the tree remains strong, the cold consumes yet her wisdom prevails because she is a woman.

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Colleen Henn

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If you see me or not English version by Morgan Kennedy If you see me or not I am there no sorrow, no joy.

If you miss me or not the feeling is there no coming, no going.

If you love me or not the love is there no gain, no loss.

If you come with me or not my hand is in your hand no leaving, no forsaking, Come to my embrace or let me live in your heart.

Let us love each other, keep this silence, the stillness of affection.

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Holly Geffs

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Center of My World English version by the author I say you are the center of my world When you rise leaves rustle, grass sways by your grace To me, you are my blessing When you cry the heavens open and flood the land When you laugh flowers rejoice for spring has come I say you are the center of my world When you were young I protected your innocence As you grew I helped you to stand tall Now you have grown I watch you run fast and strong You are the center of my world

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Giulia Campana

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You Are the April of My World English translation by Nicole Polemeni-Hegarty I say that you are the April of the world the baby wakes and his laughter blows the wind so gently the spring’s bright shapes and colors change.

You are the April, in the dry days I see the clouds coming to nurture the land, the evening wind blows softly, the stars accidentally flash, the rain unexpectedly falls softly on the flowers.

That light, that painting that you are, vivid and bright in color with the crown of white flowers on your head, you are innocent, you are solemn; you are every night of the full moon.

Like the yellow moonlight away like snow you are fresh like a new green bud, you are tender joy like a lotus flower, you float on the water of my dreams.

You are a continuously blossoming bud, a sparrow chirping and singing in the rafters, your love is war, you are the April of my world!

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Taylor Blevin

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Sarah Furth

Latina Latin

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Contentio Alex Jordan Nos morituri te salutamus.

Est pugnaturus; hic antiquus ludus immutabilis est.

Nos morituri te salutamus.

Timor mortis evanescitur, sed quatenus?

Nos morituri te salutamus.

Telum quam acerrimum est sed paratusne vero ire in proelium?

Nos morituri te salutamus.

Introit fortis in specie, sed invitus apud cor in aciem.

Nos morituri te salutamus.

Adversarius advenit denique!

Constituetne necare, obtruncare, fugere?

Nos morituri te salutamus.

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Katie Colford

The Struggle English version by the author We who are about to die salute you.

He is about to fight; the ancient game is unchanging.

We who are about to die salute you.

The fear of death is forgotten, but for how long?

We who are about to die salute you.

His spear is as sharp as possible, but is he truly ready to go into battle?

We who are about to die salute you.

He enters into the battle line strong in appearance, but reluctant at heart.

We who are about to die salute you.

The enemy has finally arrived!

Does he decide to kill, to murder, or to flee?

We who are about to die salute you.

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Giulia Campana

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Katie Colford

Riddle #1 Molly Flynn Nocte saepe ostendo faciem meam conviva apud mensam, sed non arrodam tempus impellit et urget me ad humum; in vento vel aqua inventa sum.

Riddle #1 English version by the author I often show my face in the night a guest at your table, but I won’t take a bite time pushes and presses me into the ground; in the wind or the water I will never be found.

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Sarah Drumm

Riddle #2 Molly Flynn Sum optimus amicus contemplativi, pessimus inimicus metuentis, et solus modus quo culpabilis potest abscondere actionem.

Numquam vixi, neque possum faci, autem vacua loca saepe inveniunt me esse mortuum.

Solum verbum amandat me et nulla verba me referent, enim numquam venio ubi vocatus sum.

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Riddle #2 English version by the author  I am the greatest companion of the contemplative, the worst enemy of the frightened, and the only way a guilty man can keep his secrets.

I have never lived, nor can I be created, yet empty places often find me dead.

One word banishes me and no words can ever bring me back, for I never come when I am called.

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Production Notes

Voices is published annually by a group of high school students at Convent of the Sacred Heart in Greenwich, Connecticut. The magazine receives many submissions of artwork and writing and attempts to use as many of these pieces as possible to demonstrate the range of creative talents of the student body. Students create the layout using Adobe InDesign CS5 on Dell computers and the artwork is formatted using Adobe Photoshop CS5. The typeface is set in Times New Roman.

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Katie Colford