Luis Eduardo Rendón was born in Roque, Antioquia, Colombia, in June 1972. He has published the following poetry books: Harp at the Mercy of Invisible Hands, 1996; The Speed of Stones is Blue, 1997; Universal Gong Night, 1997; After the Spectral She-Wolf, 1998; Mercurio Square, 2000; Book of Presages, 2011; The Oldest and Purest Game Never Ends, 2014. The flame is sweet in its place is his last book (Unpublished yet).
He has belonged since his early years to the organization of the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, to the Prometeo Art and Poetry Corporation, and to the Editorial Board of Prometeo Magazine. He is the program coordinator of the Medellin International Poetry Festival.
Aleksandra Radaković, was born in 1993 in Kraljevo (Serbia). She graduated the Faculty of Law in Belgrade. She is currently pursuing her Masters of Cultural Studies at the Faculty of Political Science in Belgrade. She published “Polazište”, a book of poetry, essays and travel notes. She is the owner of the production company ArteTim, where she produces film content with her TV team. She works as an editor and PR manager at Belgrade ARTE Publishing House. She is the PR of the Kantfest Composers Festival in Belgrade, the Inđija PRO POET International Literature Festival and the Serbian Culture Daysi in Istria (Croatia). She has participated in many International Literature, Film and Art Festivals in over twenty countries. Her works are published in numerous volumes and translated into six languages. She works and lives in Belgrade.
~ Antaripa Dev Parashar reads Serbian poet Aleksandra Radakovic’s poem ফুলাম অভিব্যক্তি . Assamese translation by Debasish Parashar. ~
The sky has lit its brightest lantern, and gold-winged stars have perched themselves beneath the clouds, where they spin the most delicate web of dreams. You ask me what sense means? What love is? Why I defend Karenina and curse Vronsky, why my favorite love story is the one between Mayakovsky and Tatyana Yakovleva, a love that never really happened, but was showed through flowers. Those flowers that kept arriving to her Despite and in spite of everyone else. Close your eyes and listen to the silence. Dive into infinity. Throw the hook into the blue guts of the skies And you will realize… We are mere grains of dust that for a moment sparkled on the ground. New life will never be justification for death. All the rivers flow into our bloodstreams and each mountain takes breath with our lungs. All seeds ripen inside us, inside our wombs and your chests. And everything is simple, though it seems difficult, but we are unprepared to think in a simple manner. The entire universe lies shrank inside of the pupils, just look closely and in every man you will see a sobbing child, trapped, and life itself is so childish. And then you ask me what love is? Our desire for existence, for entropy and decomposition… The desire not to burn out like the gold-winged stars that nest under the wings of the Moon. Like the lightning that deflowers heavens and vanishes. And you know, love is justification. It gives sense to senselessness And light to the darkness. It smells just like those bouquets Which long after Mayakovsky Kept arriving at her door.