A poet is a societal surgeon, whose poesy, identifies, diagnoses , proscribes and acts accordingly. His/her words are the scalpel and the sutures to expose, extract and treat the tumor that has been affecting and afflicting the social standing, the character , the stature and the integrity of the society beyond boarders. The tumor that has inflicted acute pain, threat to life, corruption, disfiguring and abject sufferance is then exposed for what it is. A poet is an experience of a society, he /she cannot be weaned off his/her social proximities, political dwellings and sensibilities, historical experiences, anthropological, archeological, cultural and spiritual identifications. The poet is part of the whole, but to effectively lender a fair bit of whom he/she is, must stand on principles of Truth through the lenses of metaphors and Pays this truth in lines, whether society applauds or frowns. That’s the cross of a poet.

“I write this from storm clouds
tumbling over a mountain
like ghostly echoes of its
famous volcanic eruption.
I saw them whip by
the train’s window
and decided to ride
them, slipping out of
the passenger car unnoticed
just when you stopped my heart.
The rain of sound would form
meaning with lightning and thunder
if I had not fallen under the spell”

In opening the sizzling pot menu of his latest poetic gourmet NOTHING REMEMBERS Michael Dickel’ takes us to Pompeii .THE RETURN TO POMPEII an intriguing political, anthropological, archeological and spiritual verse that embodies almost all patches of humanity. Pompeii is a story embedded in history coupled with
anthropological richness , human loss , wonderment and spiritual demise. The city of Pompeii is famous because it was destroyed in 79 CE when a nearby volcano, Mount Vesuvius, erupted, covering it in at least 6 meters of ash and other volcanic debris. The city’s quick burial preserved it for centuries before its ruins were discovered in the late 16th century. A victim who perished in Pompeii after Mount Vesuvius erupted in A.D. 79. … That’s because between 15,000 and 20,000 people lived in Pompeii and Herculaneum, and the majority of them survived Vesuvius’ catastrophic eruption

Take me back to fields’ wheat grown and golden…
Take me back to hot ovens in the kitchen,
the scent of hot bread

The poet, chronicler cum Jewish cultural patriot is nostalgic. His pen is the heritage of his Jewish people. Michael Dickel as a poet of Jewish decent carries the DNA of resilience, spirituality, traditions and cultures that have stood the test of time and grind of millenniums.

Bread is the metaphor of life that comes from wheat which grows from the soil; the soil that made the flesh of men, and that some day, shall lay claim to it. The repetition of the phrase “Take me back” in the poem FOLLOWING is a symbol of completing a circle which embodies birth, birthright ,identity ,growth change and death. Both the poet is the poem are prophetic. They foresee the future generations retracing back to their roots and yearning to identify with the light that their forefathers carried. The poem FOLLOWING is a revelation that awakens the current generation to embrace that which was of light, life and identity. The poet, chronicler, cultural patriot protest to be returned to realities and complexities that shaped him from tenderness into maturation . The Poet in Michael Dickel carry in his DNA the spirits of his land .Golden Wheat is the soul and the food of yesteryear and of today’s generation. My argument remains that EVERYTHING REMEMBERS than NOTHING REMEMBERS because the DNA never forgets ,it flows in everything that is life and it is generational, revolving and evolving in and out of generations .

Michael Dickel is a master of moral instruction and a tutor of spiritual consciousness through paradoxical literatures ,his versifications are undoubtedly didactic . I REMEMBERED DREAMING is vastly a motif of the connection of the seen realm and the other world , higher power. As you may know, dreams are vehicles that carry our consciousness, aspirations , inspirations, fears, ambitions and experiences. Dreams are search rooms where we commune with the higher powers for purposes of awakening . Dreams like poetry question ,advise, seek and inform.

“Vacant nights besiege us,
Nothing more than a dried orange peel found in a kitchen corner

So we thatched our lives together
And slept under rising planets and a cyclic moon.
We hiked where we could and found springs from time to time.

An acacia provided scant shade when we chose to sit”

This satirical free verse I REMEMBERED DREAMING mirrors the paradoxical nature of life. The poem is prologued by doom , gloom ,loss and death and then epilogued by verses dawning streaks of hope and silver rays of promise to the reader ,because life feeds on death and death feeds life. It is between those extremes that life thrives. Michael Dickel’s poetry is gourmet of sour and sweet as depicted in the seasons of ordinary life is a wonder to the mind that thrills in poesy and it’s potent mission of informing. His poetry passionately carries us from the muddy spring of confusion to the pinnacle of promise, we drink the beverage of hope and breathe the refreshment of enlightenment after all.

A good writer poet is a good reader as well as a traveler , keen observer, foraging in the jungles of wide spaces and exotic lands capturing knowledge as the hunter of wisdom, that Michael Dickel is. He is not limited to the images of the spirituality and confines of Jewish traditions. His best teacher in this case is nature in its natural habitat. His verses take us on a voyage to Minnesota, to familiarize the reader, the learner , poetry suitor and his audience with geese , a free range , amazing bird and the geese are a tourist attraction seductively attracting both the old and young , rich and poor in varying seasons .Through written word ,he has immortalized a Geese phenomenon. The mastery of language and the versatility of detail in his poetry justifies his broader understanding of the world and everything dwelling in it.

This year they return——–
The men’s wrinkles further out, his trunk still tall,
the women slips on shit, her laughing a bow string release
Now she will say,——————– we have become familiar with the geese

Geese are birds that practice a classic example of leadership, as famously seen in the V –formation during migratory times. They have a great sense of family and loyalty. This is in tandem with Jewish family tradition of Michael Dickel ,our man of letters. Every year Michael Dickel and his family visit Minnesota ,Great Lakes to commune with the Geese ,because his family traditions are synonymous to the Geese communal loyalty , classic leadership skills and sense of family .The strong takes care of the weak, the speed of the weakest member is factored by the rest of flock.

“Slid into darker and darker suits, drenched now
Slippery and shiny as the lights sparked
Into orange , as their existential moods-warm, cold, yet friendly,
all at once. This life sentence
Punctuated by red tail lights and white headlights

We seek solace and comfort, but settle for a few short nods”

A day being an illusion like reality, life is defined by the activities .The poem AT THE END OF THE DAY is a throb of protest. The poet is wearing the jacket of a city laborer, the personae’s day is defined by activities, emotions and his reactions to life . He bemoans the dullness and the grayness of being attached to prison of city life. The laborer is protesting for freedom , for diversity . The poem is somber and pessimistic . He never enjoys the fruits of his sweat , the flow of time and the dance of hours into days . He is closed somewhere in the dungeons of misery, his human wings are clipped by a demanding system. A system that he cannot change , the system was set before his existence and it is robotic, he is yearning for freedom , this poem is vehemently protesting , the diction is simplified while the detail is deep and reason is extraordinary . The hypocritical, the pretentious and cosmetic nature of city life , the exotic and fakeness , how demeaning . His approach to life issues is mesmerizingly philosophical and stunning the dictionary dexterity is beyond extraordinary.

The humanist poet and lover of life in Michael Dickel pays respect to the late IRWIN GOOEN. His tears are verses that wet poetic pages with grief and tribute to a man who lived his life to the fullest, a man of versatility , dexterity and great responsibility , Irwin Gooen.

The door closed , Clouds cover the moon
His fountain of words evaporates off the wall
Where he wrote them,
The wheels have fallen from the truck
When his friends find him , they lay him on the stone he carved

And the dust returns to the earth
As it was, and the spirit returns to God,
Who gave it,
Kohelet 12:7

The poet and the poem mourns every gift ,career ,talents and choices ,the highs and lows in men. A versatile artist and extraordinary human Gooen . His life was revered/integrity, which means gifts were divine and the burial was lavish, signified by spiritual opulence, Jewish cultural rites and human reverence. Poet Dickel pays respect to this man important to humanity, his artistic glow is excellent, his life was worthily lived and experienced .Above all , with this poem ,Dickel mourns the death of human gift ,the death of every choice and death of every career.

“Irwin Gooen ONEONTA _ Irwin Gooen, 82, passed away on Friday, May 28, 2010. Irwin was a photographer, writer, outdoor educator, environmental and peace activist, community volunteer, movie buff, canoeist, actor, rock critic, latke maker, road man, and gadfly. Stoner and jailbird. Jewish Taoist: The last of the Cosmic Cowboys. To be buried on the Shoggi Boghi property which he stewarded, and which has been put into a Wildlife Land Trust. A farewell party to be held somewhere downs the line” Excerpt from Google News.

The last verse pays tribute to wholesome power of the Almighty, and the poem rings with biblical connotations and rimmed by spiritual reverence . Signifying the Omni-presence of the Lord , the giver of life and its gifting’s and the taker of them all. Irwin Gooen is every man ,whichever he chose in life or whichever part chose him in life. In the same wavelength, In his poem Dust to Dust Michael Dickel refuses to buy the confusion that when man die ,he will die forever . Dickel believes that the deeds and the spirit of man will always be retained after death, eternity.

Wholesomely, NOTHING REMEMBERS is a paradox of life, death and resurrection as seen in seasons of life ,in the aging , as seen in the sunrise and sunset, so EVERYTHING REMEMBERS that becomes in the paradox of Michael Dickel’s NOTHING REMEMBERS. My argument is there is nothing called nothing, even void is full of something even if that something is emptiness. Nothing Remembers is a deep paradox of existence and non-existence, or nonexistence in existence. NOTHING REMEMBERS , the title is a complex analogy of the world found in Michael Dickel’s poesy and that is artistically synchronized by the visual art oil painting Angel of Time, which is the cover jacket of the , remember time depicts age and agelessness , existence , spirituality , memory and hope . All these factors are captured in NOTHING REMEMBERS. When you remember an incident , the first flicker of your memory is TIME , so the use of the visual art ANGEL OF TIME on the book cover synchronizes presentation , literary swag , artistic dexterity, reason ,morality and depth of detail ,etiquette, personal experience ,travelogue and deep personal reflections.

Poet Writer Dickel is a man of today and a blessing for tomorrow.Michael (Dickel) Dekel has authored six published books and chapbooks (pamphlets) of poetry and short fiction, and published over 200 individually published poems, short stories, and non-fiction pieces, in addition to book-reviews and academic articles—under his birth name, Michael Dickel. His next book will come out summer 2019 from Finishing Line Press (https://tinyurl.com/y3684acu). For Fisher Features, Ltd, he wrote a successful NEH film-development grant and the script for a documentary film on Yiddish theatre. He works as a freelance editor for publishers and individual authors, co-edited Voices Israel Vol. 36 (2010), and served or continues to serve as an editor of one sort or another for several print and online literary periodicals. He has taught writing, literature, and English language in higher education in both the U.S. and Israel. Michael publishes an online blog-Zine (https://MichaelDickel.info/). He is the past chair of the Israel Association of Writers in English. He holds a Bachelor’s in psychology, a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing (Fiction and Poetry concentrations), and a Doctorate in English.


Review Essay Mbizo Chirasha

MBIZO CHIRASHA is the Poet in Residence at the Fictional Café (International publishing and literary digital space). 2019 Sotambe Festival Live Literature Hub and Poetry Café Curator. 2019 African Fellow for the International Human Rights Art Festival( ihraf.org) , Essays Contributor to Monk Art and Soul Magazine in United Kingdom .Arts Features Writer at the International Cultural Weekly .Featured Writer Poet Activist at The Poet A Day(https://jamiededes.com/). Contributor to Bezine of Arts and Humanities(https://thebezine.com/).The Originator of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Curator of MiomboPublishing Blog Journal(https://miombopublishing.wordpress.com/). Founder and Chief Editor of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS. Founder and Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal. Co-Editor of Street Voices Poetry triluangal collection( English , African Languages and Germany) initiated by Andreas Weiland in Germany. Poetry Contributor to AtunisPoetry.com in Belgium. African Contributor to DemerPress International Poetry Book Series in Netherlands. African Contributor to the World Poetry Almanac Poetry Series in Mongolia. His latest 2019 collection of experimental poetry A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT was released by Mwanaka Media and Publishing and is both in print, on Amazon.com and at is featured at African Books Collective. 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (SIDA AFRICAN PAVILION) .2009 Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development (ICACD) in Ghana. 2009 Fellow to the inaugural UNESCO- Africa Photo- Novel Publishers and Writers Training in Tanzania. 2015 Artist in Residence of the Shunguna Mutitima International Film and Arts Festival in Livingstone, Zambia. A globally certified literary arts influencer, Writer in Residence and Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Defenders Protection Fund Grant, Recipient of the Pen Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant. He is an Arts for Peace and Human Rights Catalyst, the Literary Arts Projects Curator, Poet, Writer, publicist is published in more 200 spaces in print and online

Atanu’s Hon’ble / Short story by Manab Manik

Manab Manik

Manab Manik is a bilingual poet and short story writer whose poems and stories have been published in India, Australia, Canada, USA, Belgium both online and print. His poetry books ‘Dreams Shattered and Other Poems’ and ‘My Poetic Offering’ published in 2019 have got great critical responses in India and beyond. He also writes haikus which are receiving popularity among the readers. His stories like Wilde’s and Tagore’s draw tears of the readers. Recently Manab is teaching English literature at Mugbasan Hakkania High School about 70 miles away from Kolkata in India.


Atanu’s Hon’ble

Atanu could not go to school for two successive days. As soon as he goes to school on the third day the headmaster almost rushes at him. For taking leave without previous information the hon’ble becomes angry and fiery. He is asking other assistant teachers where Atanu babu is. Before prayer when the hon’ble goes on delivering the words of the ten notices and the right hand busy in itching below, Atanu is signing in the attendence register. After prayer when Suva babu and Tarak babu speak of Atanu-searching of the hon’ble, Atanu heads towards the head sir’s room to know the matter. Discovering Atanu in front of his room, the hon’ble roars from the centre of the campus —

“I ‘ll write medical leave of your two days’ leave”.
“Sir, I came to inform you for leave on Saturday”.
“But . . . ” (Stopping him).
“Yours ‘ll be medical leave” (Rolling eyes).
“Sir, I couldn’t find you in my off period. Coming twice. . . . ” (Again stopping him).
“Indeed, you didn’t inform me in advance”.
“I did come to tell you. On Saturday in the last period you ‘re teaching even after the ringing of the bell !”
“You . . . ” (Again interrupting).
“Sir, I ‘ve to catch the bus on time”.
“I don’t know that. Yours ‘ll be medical leave”.
Head sir’s words ‘Yours ‘ll be medical leave ‘ are as if a master’s telling his servant ‘I ‘ll cut your two days’ wages’. Now Atanu became angry. Four or five including the clerks and the peons are present in headmaster’s room. All are listening to silently.

Head sir is such an expert and seasoned that he controls office with some, even though he has a personal room. Again he has been calculating his own new increased salary for some days with a little itching. Again even the students covertly whispers that head sir will have to use B- TEX. Even in prayer he has to itch. Even head sir’s wife also teaches English in that school. Some say, husband and wife are running the school. How much humiliation they once gave Atanu about examining the answer papers of class eleven !!! How much insult by the husband and wife separately! Joining the school as a new teacher, while examining the answer papers of students, Atanu penned through the expression ‘committed suicide’ of Lady Macbeth. The students say that they have read head sir’s notes. Head sir is angry like fire. Again the wife of the hon’ble, showing the book of H.S Council, goes on teaching, “Understood Atanu babu? Understand what am I saying?”
“Wow! They have made hotchpotch out of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’ and Charles and Mary Lamb. The successors of Lamb and Shakespeare will die of laughter indeed !!!”
Again the hon’ble writes every notice twice. How beautiful even after this !!! It is as if the English vocabulary went up, increased !!! Many new words !!! Shakespeare gave about twenty one thousand and Milton about eight thousand words. He too is increasing the vocabulary !!!

Now Atanu said in a loud voice —
“Yes Mr.! Write medical leave, medical leave”.
“I ‘ll do it later. Why are you speaking in a loud voice?”
“How shall I say then? You haven’t listened to my words from the beginning. You say nothing to those who don’t obey you, do everything according to their will. Be it meeting or examination you can say nothing, nothing to those leaving school before the right time. And you ‘re hissing in my case. How many shall I say?”
“You ‘re speaking beyond subject”.
“Speaking rightly. A man without conscience you ‘re !”

Opening the attendance register, Atanu hands it to the hon’ble and tells him to write medical leave. Then head sir snatches away the attendance register. Atanu’s voice becomes inaudible and weak and eyes flash with tears. Now the roaring of the hon’ble spreads, as if the building is shaking. Coming back to the staff room, Atanu breaks down in tear. Atanu’s hon’ble has forgotten days, months, years. The calendar says, there is no more time. Afternoon came rolling. Like the previous head sirs this head sir too will be none to earth in this world of time. Only his chair, pride, ego and vanity will be left.

Note: B-TEX is an ointment used to cure itching.

Story with a photo from Israel (Verhaal bij een foto uit Israël) / By Hannie Rouweler

Kibbutz Kiryat Anavim, Fall 1973

Story with a photo from Israel

In an old scrapbook I came across some photos this week, which were left over from my trip to Israel. I have talked about this with a few people: write a story about it, a poem. I have incorporated flashes into poems. But a short story, it did not happen.
Until I saw this picture again. Taken just before the Yom Kippur war broke out. I remember that day like yesterday. During the day I sat by the pool, I remember. It was an important holiday. The mandatory bodyguard, every kibbutz appoints a bodyguard for surveillance if there is a swimming pool, had radio Nathan on. The peace radio station that was well listened to in the country.
All of a sudden, low squadrons flew over, several at a time and made a huge noise. They flew to the south. Then a voice followed through the radio: It’s war. I do not forget that rolling r.

The bodyguard looked at me in astonishment, went to his room, put on his soldier’s suit, his family was already waiting for him. Later in the day buses arrived at the kibbutz, all young men got in, they had to go to the front. Weeping women and children who stayed behind.

Buses quickly arrived for the volunteers. Certainly four or even five, a long line. I’ve all waved it off. They went straight to the airport, back home. In the meantime, about two days later, I received a telegram in my name from the Dutch embassy in Tel Aviv with the urgent request to take the last EL AL flight. The airport would then be closed for foreign traffic. I looked at the message, wondering how exactly they knew my address, kept it for another day, then it disappeared into the trash can. Of course they knew my address. That had nothing to do with the Mossad but with the mandatory registration of volunteers, from abroad.
Although I then had a room above the dining room and the office, and I was given the opportunity to move to beautiful, detached houses, which were now empty, further on the grounds, I stayed where I was. Like a spider in a web. Here, through the floor, I heard dozens of hunted conversations that were being held daily. Of course I did not understand anything. Suddenly the kibbutz was transformed of a peace palace into a besieged fortress. Curtains closed at night (otherwise a guard came by). Guards at night, screaming and weeping mothers who had received bad news from the front. There was no communication with me anymore in English. Luckily I found the Jerusalem Post on a table in the dining room, so I could follow everything a bit in this newspaper. In the meantime I worked in the kitchen.
One day I decided to leave, although I had little money in my pocket. I couldn’t stand anymore those crying women, the screams, the panic. I took my stuff, said goodbye to the Polish woman who was head of the organization of volunteers, on average there were two hundred volunteers, who worked in apple orchards, kitchen, washing and ironing rooms, or got other work. She apologized to me, she had deep wrinkles in her face. I said that I didn’t think it to be necessary, as it was wartime, and that I understood the situation. On the side of the road, not far from Jerusalem, I put my thumb up. Eventually I ended up in the far north, where dozens of tanks stood along the borders of Syria and Lebanon. I was not allowed to continue. I was stopped by soldiers. Then to the south. I eventually ended up in the Arad area. Desert region, Negev and Sinai. There I ran into a patrol of heavily armed soldiers, who looked at me furiously when they found out that I was not an Israeli woman but a bloody tourist. I told them that I came from the Netherlands. They calmed down, and showed me the way back to Arad.

Then the war ended. I thought it had been good enough and went back home after spending a day in a park to make a decision. I just flew back with a KLM flight (open ticket).

Hannie Rouweler
Leusden, November 2018


Hospital, Jerusalem (blood donation) – bloedbank, ziekenhuis, Jeruzalem

Verhaal bij een foto uit Israël

In een oud plakboek kwam ik deze week enkele foto’s tegen, die waren overgebleven van mijn reis naar Israël. Ik heb met enkelen daar weleens over gesproken: schrijf er een verhaal over, een gedicht. Flitsen ervan heb ik inmiddels verwerkt in gedichten. Maar een kort verhaal, het kwam er niet van.

Totdat ik deze foto weer zag. Genomen vlak voordat de Yom Kippur oorlog uitbrak. Die dag herinner ik me als gisteren. Overdag zat ik bij het zwembad, ik weet het nog. Het was een belangrijke feestdag. De verplichte bodyguard, elke kibbutz stelt een bodyguard voor toezicht aan als er een zwembad is, had radio Nathan aanstaan. De vredezender die goed beluisterd werd in het land.

Ineens vlogen laag squadrons vliegtuigen over, enkele tegelijk en maakten een enorme herrie. Ze vlogen naar het zuiden. Daarna volgde een stem door de radio: It’s war. Die rollende r vergeet ik niet meer.

De bodyguard keek verbluft naar mij, ging naar zijn kamer, trok zijn soldatenpak aan, zijn familie wachtte hem daar al op. Later op de dag kwamen bussen op de kibbutz, alle jonge mannen stapten erin, ze moesten naar het front. Huilende vrouwen en kinderen, die achterbleven.

Al snel kwamen ook bussen aan voor de volunteers. Zeker vier of zelfs vijf, een lange rij. Die heb ik allemaal uitgezwaaid. Ze gingen direct naar het vliegveld, terug naar huis. Intussen kreeg ik, twee dagen later ongeveer, een telegram op mijn naam, van de Nederlandse ambassade uit Tel Aviv met het dringend verzoek de laatste EL AL vlucht te nemen. Het vliegveld zou nadien gesloten zijn voor buitenlands verkeer. Ik keek naar het bericht, vroeg me af hoe ze precies mijn adres wisten, bewaarde die nog een dag waarna hij in de prullenbak verdween. Natuurlijk wisten ze mijn adres. Dat had niets met de Mossad te maken maar met de verplichte inschrijving van volunteers, uit het buitenland.

Hoewel ik toen een kamer boven de eetzaal en het kantoor had, en men mij de gelegenheid gaf om naar mooie, vrij liggende woningen te verhuizen, die nu leeg stonden, verderop het terrein, bleef ik zitten waar ik zat. Als een spin in een web. Hier hoorde ik, door de vloer heen, de tientallen opgejaagde gesprekken die dagelijks werden gevoerd. Ik verstond er uiteraard niets van. Ineens was de kibbutz van een vredespaleis omgetoverd naar een belegerde vesting. Gordijnen ’s avonds dicht (anders kwam een bewaker langs). Bewaking op het terrein, schreeuwende en huilende moeders die slecht bericht hadden gekregen van het front. Met mij werd niet meer in het Engels, of nauwelijks, nog gecommuniceerd. Gelukkig vond ik de Jerusalem Post, op een tafel in de eetzaal, waardoor ik alles een beetje kon volgen. Intussen werkte ik in de keuken.

Op een dag besloot ik te vertrekken, hoewel ik weinig geld op zak had. Ik kon niet meer tegen die huilende vrouwen, het geschreeuw, de paniek. Ik pakte mijn spullen, nam afscheid van de Poolse vrouw die hoofd was van de organisatie van volunteers, gemiddeld zaten er tweehonderd vrijwilligers, die werkten in de appelboomgaarden, keuken, was- en strijkhokken, of ander werk kregen. Ze verontschuldigde zich tegenover mij, ze had diepe rimpels in haar gelaat. Ik zei dat ik dat niet nodig vond, dat het oorlogstijd was, en ik dat begreep. Langs de kant van de weg, niet ver van Jeruzalem, stak ik mijn duim op. Uiteindelijk kwam ik terecht in het hoge noorden, waar tientallen tanks langs de grenzen van Syrië en Libanon stonden. Ik mocht niet verder. Ik werd tegen gehouden door soldaten. Dan maar naar het zuiden. Ik kwam uiteindelijk terecht in de omgeving van Arad. Woestijngebied, Negev en Sinaï. Daar liep ik tegen een patrouille soldaten aan, die me woedend aankeken toen ze ontdekten dat ik niet een Israëlische vrouw was maar een bloody toerist. Ik vertelde ze dat ik uit Nederland kwam. Ze werden er rustig van en wezen me terug naar Arad.

Daarna was de oorlog afgelopen. Ik vond het mooi geweest en ging weer naar huis nadat ik een hele dag in een park had gezeten, om een beslissing te kunnen nemen. Ik vloog gewoon terug met een KLM vlucht (open ticket).

Hannie Rouweler

Leusden, november 2018


Agron Tufa, atdheu i bukur dhe tufëzat cinike të chihuahua-ve. (E sapobotuar tek Radi And Radi) / Nga: Shpend Sollaku Noé

Agron Tufa, atdheu i bukur dhe tufëzat cinike të chihuahua-ve. (E sapobotuar tek Radi And Radi) http://www.radiandradi.com/agron-tufa-atdheu-i-bukur-dhe-tufezat-cinike-te-chihuahua-ve-nga-shpend-sollaku-noe/?fbclid=IwAR0hceyoFLhZEOLMMEKh20KJB6PsiN1XgMm7iXlipG5CyTAJuPl2LtCkYys Tre opzione të lidhura ngushtë, të prezantuara në një foto të vetme. Një familje e bukur Tufa – babi Agroni, mama Elvana, dhe … Continue reading