Art

A quiet visitor - Zainab

Fragile Beauty - Zainab

Shelter in the Rain - Nafisa Tafannum

Writing

Kaash/If Only - Zainab

What it Means to Stay - Zoha Kashif

Teething - Eric Yang

nature is waiting for you to notice her. - Ayesha Zeb

The weight of flesh - Varda Naeem

let's take the long way home - Ayesha Zeb

Love - Andy Flores

Apple Trees - Kasey Nelson

Keluarga yang Saling Mengusahakan (A Family That Strives for One Another) - Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah

The grocery cart and alleys - Niharika Jain

By Zainab

"My first ever poem I wrote from the bottom of my heart. We all carry our “if only” within us. Sometimes I feel these “if onlys” make us humble, reminding us of what we lack and what others endure. Yet at the same time, they can quietly make us ungrateful for what we already have. We keep living between gratitude and longing, never fully belonging to either. Perhaps that is what makes us HUMAN."

کاش

دیواروں کےبھی کان تو ہیں

کاش کہ انکی زبان بھی ہوتی

ظالم کے بھی پاؤں تو ہیں

کاش کہ ان میں زنجیربھی ہوتی

انسان کےدل میں احساس تو ھے

کاش کہ آواز میں گونج بھی ہوتی

غریب کی آنکھ میں خواب تو ہیں

کاش کہ انکی تعبیر بھی ہوتی

آدم کی ذباں پر شکر ہوتا

گر کاش کے جیسا،کوئ لفظ نہ ہوتا

English Translation:

"If Only"

Walls have ears too,

If only they also had a voice.

The oppressor also has feet,

If only there were chains on them too.

There is feeling in a human heart,

If only there was an echo in the voice too.

Poor person have dreams in his eyes,

If only those dreams also had fulfillment.

Gratitude rests on Adam’s tongue,

If only the world had no “if only” at all.

By Zoha Kashif

Zoha Kashif is a Pakistani Canadian poet from Toronto. She's a nineteen year old college student whose enamoured with poetry, especially lyrical poetry. For her poetry is an essential art form that connects her to people, the earth and herself. Her aim is to leave an impact on people with her words. Some of her hobbies include cooking, gardening and drawing still life.

HYMN TO MY MOTHER

By Zoha Kashif

It is sacred,

the way my mother raises her hands to cook, 

careful and slow as if in prayer.

She adds the olive oil first, 

a few sizzling drops spreading across the pot 

over the dancing flame.

Then the verdant thyme and thick garlic paste, 

dry little leaves falling between her fingers; they swirl in the pan in tandem, 

while she adds the diced tomatoes and turmeric, 

a bright red and yellow blending in the pot.

Then come the meatballs, the boiled eggs, 

and the soft mint leaves she's grown.

Here love is gentle, 

it simmers in the pot, 

and when she lifts the ladle 

the first bite goes to me.

She teaches me love

as something you can stand beside, 

something that sizzles in your mouth, 

something warm that coats your tongue, 

and stays there awhile after you've swallowed.

By Eric Yang

Eric Yang is a 16-year-old writer from Massachusetts in the United States, currently in 10th-grade. His work has been nationally recognized by Scholastic Art & Writing, and has been published in literary magazines such as The Incandescent Review.

teething 

teething was my mother’s first pain / blood dribbled from the / hollowed socket of

gums / under the torrential underbrush / of tongue & lip / im the first glint of

pearl-white erupted / teething, the moment / i carved words into / curated weapons,

tapered to draw / canyons in flesh / when i bit down / hard to form pleated

syllables like metal / surrendered to force / amalgamated into a cesspool / of unkempt

limbs & exhaust lungs / teething was when / my mother realized / i wasn’t her child

forever / once soft like milkflower petals / skin soured by imperfections / i spoke

truths in fluorescent / abalone shells, my fingers furled at / my shattered image

wondering / how words / sprouted teeth & leapt / in fleets off the page / i

recall that feeling of / suffocation, drowning in / molasses-thick phlegm & / battered

welts in my mouth / the taste of iron coalescing / with the pain of change / the agony

of renewal stabbing / the back of my throat / where a starved larynx resides / the body

yearns for recognition / for that fraction of pain / molded into maturing / like a tooth

slicing tissue / dappled with crimson trails / beneath iron root canals / to harness violence /

to learn, heavy-heartedly / that the universe confines / instead of protects / cerulean

curtains stifling light / within diaphanous ruffles / windows bare-boned & skeletal /

like a body not capable / of breeding life / clinging to its innocence / the air tastes

moist / with my mother’s / elegies & i realize / teething was her first / & last pain

By Ayesha Zeb

Ayesha is an emerging writer whose work explores the intersections of emotion and memory, focusing on the weight of unspoken words. 

"The beauty of this nature forced me to sit down and think so hard and come up with an art in the form of this writing. "

I feel something unfamiliar whenever I see clouds over my head. There's a beautiful yet sad thing that seems to be associated with them, and I'm sitting here with no exact description of that feeling.  

When the clouds cover the dark sky of night there's something so frantically boundless about them. Gazing at them makes me feel like I'm looking at a picture of someone who visits me rarely or never. And standing underneath their shade, feels like getting showered by the milky light of the moon.                             

You don't feel it upon you, yet you do feel it upon you. weird right?   

I'm in absolute awe whenever I look up at the sky, it's as if I'm admiring a painting so beautifully painted.             

It's as if I'm looking at something so beautiful and not being able to capture its raw look, just the way I see it.         

 It's as if looking at something so vast yet so captivating that you feel the ache of not being able to witness its beauty through all its vastness.                      

They feel so close yet so far. 

They feel like something I love so deeply yet I can never have in my hands. melancholic right?   

I still cannot name the exact emotion and feeling of having them above your head, being showered in their brownish shade.                                                

There's still more that I can't grasp and turn into an exact description of something you can understand — unless you have felt the same way I'm feeling right now. This specific feeling has a bit of possessiveness in it,                                 

It refuses to give me any clear meaning or an answer of depth behind this emotion when looking at those dark brown clouds. 

As if he is saying let this feeling stay between you and me.                         

only between you and me.                    

No one has to know the secret language and connection we share.                     

Still, I want to give this connection a name.                                                         I want to bring into existence.

clouds; that are packed with sorrow but still have a touch of artistry within.     

They carry the depth of something that cannot be put into words. a burden they refuse to share.                                   

They don't let me name their grief.     

Even though I see lines of cracks between them just like a bottle that is overflowing their grief overflows through them                                                       the crack shows me the light and I can hear the sound of it. It's the very sound of their resistance to share something and their urge to just lean on something And that is the profound reason they end up shedding tears. Sometimes lightly sometimes with intense pain, and sometimes howling that comes with the echo of their own trapped voices.   

at the end. All I can do is try to pen down the feeling even when it's resisting to be seen read or heard by anyone because some things need to be shared Maybe you will understand the nature of the connection I'm trying to portray          Maybe you'll never                         

 aybe you will look at them with a different lens                                 

Maybe you'll be able to be their companion in solitude                         

Or maybe they'll become yours! because at the end clouds are filled with sadness yet carry a beauty within.     

By Varda Naeem

Varda Naeem, aka VN, has been writing for almost 4 years now. Her poetries are mostly about love, loss, and the unsaid things. The writing reflects the truth no one dares to acknowledge easily and therefore, sometimes, can be a bit depressing.

its happening again and i might lose this time

this is too much pain, i'm losing my mind

the voices are too loud, can't we just stay here

away from the house, anywhere except there

just a little bit, i won't take long

i know its inevitable, i'll have to go home

home....can i even call it that

where its not always worse, sometimes just bad

where its not always cries and tears

but mostly just silence, loud and clear

yet not the kind that'll give you peace

but rather it hurts as much as screams

where i'm not avoided, oh no its not that

i'm the perfect toy to break in there

the one who gets all the frustration, the wrath

along with the anger, and pain, and care

yes when its too much they also comfort

and tell me its nothing and i'm so young

they'd wipe the tears but the ones i already shed?

what about the times when they didn't witness the mess?

is it my fault to always trying to fix 

why its always just me who forgives 

why don't they see the state i go in

to numb the hurt, to continue to breathe

and in the end the question remain

is it worth to continue to bear

after all we're the same blood and flesh

hopefully one day it will be more than that

~VN

By Ayesha Zeb

let’s take the long way home

so in the silence we may bloom

I picture a future of us, where i will want us to share a few extra moments with each other while we walk side by side. every step in sync . the slowly taken steps. we didn’t plan on taking that long way, we just kept walking and walking while we slowly shifted our direction to the path that gives us more time with each other’s presence. then we suddenly noticed the shifting of paths but none of us dared to point it out, afraid that the other might remember how we are getting late and let’s take the shortest cut so we reach earlier not knowing that we both wanted to be late. together. with each other’s presence. just for the sake of spending a few more minutes even in silence. because the silence we shared was our equivalent to listening to the rain drops falling from the sky. the kind that falls drop by drop creating a beautiful melody of it’s own and we both were the lovers of that melody, that sound. we both unknowingly associated each other’s company with the peace that rain gives us.

walking under the shade of moon

hoping the path doesn’t end soon

we were soaked with the milky light coming from a circular moon on the sky, we kept noticing the shadow it imprints on the pavement ‒ a shadow of us together. our shadows were also moving with us and at some point i felt as if even they wanted to stay longer by each other’s side. maybe they were tired of being a lonely shadow for so long and now when finally we met, they were awkward, hesitant too, having no idea on how to be familiar with each other. still even with all this awkwardness our shadows stayed together, holding hands and hearts that were growing closer in every second that passed. maybe that’s why we wanted the path doesn’t end soon? so our hearts could grow a bit more for each other, so they could create more space for each other or maybe just beat harder for the time being when we are around each other? maybe that was our heart’s way of being happy ‒ beating more than usual? before it learns to have a steady rhythm in front of us.

holding each other’s hand

knowing the time is slipping like sand

as the time passed both of us slightly increased the grip with which we were holding each other’s hand because we knew the destination is getting closer and the sand is reaching it’s end while slipping from our hands, maybe we thought that increasing the grip might stop the sand from slipping or maybe this way it slips more slowly — but it just increased the imprints we had already left on each other’s soul and now it’s on our hands. fingers that perfectly fit each other as if they were made for this very moment of intense grip, the kind of grip that frees your soul and still makes you crave for that enslavement more. the kind of grip that was becoming our beloved captivity making us want to be it’s prisoner for a bit longer.

slowing our pace as we reach the end

being lost in the silence we just spend

as we reached the end of the path, we stopped and faced each other. and this was the moment we knew that no one of us had chosen this long path mistakenly. our eyes locked into each other realized that we took this path wanting to be next to each other and exchange a few more moments. a smile appeared on our lips as we both broke that eye contact knowing our eyes are sharing secrets we couldn’t speak. then we said our last goodbyes and now our backs were facing each other, shadows no longer together, sand no longer slipping through because we were going to our homes. We turned together for the very last time and passed another smile and then we both returned back to where we belonged.

so even while not saying it verbally, we both were requesting the same thing from

each other : let’s take the long way home ‒ so in the silence we may bloom. 

We both smiled on our own as we shared the same inner thoughts while walking in opposite directions.

these moments were enough to make me realize

that i have chosen the right eyes

in which i can see the love arise

the kind i want to memorize

how they stay so mesmerized 

by the moments they visualize 

and the path we just immortalize

all of this symbolize

that the love has finally arrived. 

your (very) delusional writer,

Ayesha

By Andy Flores

Andy Flores is a 16 year old girl from Mexico that loves writing and thinking about the concept of unrequited love. It's her second time submitting for a mosaiclit issue, except last time she did it anonymously.

I sit in a circle of chairs:

circle of love, laughs and music.

And I am filled with an inmesurable amount of 

   sadness.

For there's enough love to go around,

love that will stay;

love that will go.

And in some way, I feel alone.

And I merely crave someone to hold:

someone that makes dinner parties never boring,

for even if people are,

they'll always be:

to laugh, to cry, to talk.

Someone that brings me my jacket

when the wind starts to blow.

Someone to whisper to,

whisper jokes no one else understands.

I want a hand to hold,

although I'm so young and have so much time,

I crave it inmensely.

And I realize that with each day that goes, I'm      

    less young.

And I'm alone, yet filled with so much love.

And I am so lucky.

By Kacey Nelson

Kasey Nelson is an emerging Irish poet whose work explores the intersection of nature, mythology, culture, and personal introspection. Nelson uses the rhythmic and aesthetic qualities of language to navigate complex emotional landscapes. Her writing has gained recognition within independent literary circles, establishing her as a compelling new voice in contemporary Irish literature. She is currently working toward her debut full-length poetry collection.

"A poem for John Nelson And Thomas Nelson"

Late August and I help you fix the washing line

By the apple trees that I used to climb

Where you would tell me stories about our history's and mythologies 

The same apple trees Dad planted when he was only just a boy

Now time moves by, 

we both played in this garden with stories we believed were true,

The sweet pungant smell of the apples that fell and 

Rotted into the ground

Planting seeds like our memories 

Of growing up with the apple trees

By Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah

Ikfanny Alfi Muhibbah Shalihah—find her on Instagram at @ikfannyalfms—is a 24-year-old Indonesian female storyteller focused on environmental sustainability, the climate crisis, public policy, and gender equality. Nothing in this world is perfect, not even family. Striving for one another is the key. This is what Ikfanny hopes to share with anyone, anywhere, and at any time who comes across her work titled "A Family That Strives for One Another".

"Keluarga yang Saling Mengusahakan" (Indonesian Version)

Tiap rumah, punya cerita. Tiap cerita, punya rumahnya. Tiap anggota keluarga, berharap sama; ingin rumah dengan segala kehangatan—selayaknya sebuah rumah.

Kita usahakan rumah dengan segala kehangatannya itu. Rumah yang tiap penghuninya dapat merasakan bahagia dengan senantiasa. Rumah yang tiap waktu selalu dirindukan. Rumah yang benar-benar menjadi definisi sebenarnya dari arti rumah itu sendiri.

Mewah tak selalu sepaket dengan kehangatan. Cukup tak selalu sepaket dengan minim kesenangan. 

Ada yang bergelimang harta, tetapi gundah gulana jadi menu rutinnya.

Ada yang selalu merasa berkecukupan dan berkehidupan stabil, didukung kehangatan dalam rumah dari tiap penghuninya.

Kita usahakan keluarga hangat dalam rumah yang penghuninya berkecukupan dalam kehidupan personal dan profesional.

Kita usahakan penghuni rumah yang berkecukupan kadar bahagia.

Kita usahakan keutuhan keluarga yang saling—memiliki, menyayangi, mengasihi, mendukung, melindungi, mengerti, mendengarkan, memperhatikan, memahami, dan tanpa menghakimi.

Kita sudah memilikinya. Kita harus mempertahankannya. Kita harus saling bersyukur atas kehadirannya. Kita sungguh mengusahakan kestabilannya.

Sungguh.

Tiap keluarga mengusahakan rumah dengan segala kehangatan, kecukupan, kebersamaan, dan kestabilan, agar tinggi kadar bahagianya senantiasa bersama.

Tak ada gading yang tak retak. Tak ada keluarga sempurna. Sejatinya, yang ada ialah keluarga dengan selalu mengusahakan untuk menghadirkan kehangatan agar senantiasa dirasakan oleh seluruh anggotanya.

"A Family That Strives for One Another" (English Version)

Every home has a story. Every story has a home. Every family member hopes for the same thing: a home filled with all its warmth—as a home should be.

We strive for a home with all that warmth. A home where every resident feels happiness, consistently. A home that is always longed for, at any time. A home that truly becomes the real definition of what “home” means.

Luxury doesn’t always come packaged with warmth. Sufficiency doesn’t always come packaged with little joy.

Some are surrounded by wealth, yet restlessness becomes their daily meal.  

Some always feel sufficient and live with stability, supported by the warmth within the home from every resident in it.

We strive for a warm family in a home whose residents are sufficient in their personal and professional lives.  

We strive for residents of a home who are sufficient in their measure of happiness.  

We strive for a family’s wholeness that mutually—possesses, cherishes, loves, supports, protects, understands, listens to, pays attention to, comprehends, and never judges.

We already have it. We must preserve it. We must be grateful for its presence. We truly strive to keep it stable.

Truly.

Every family strives for a home with all its warmth, sufficiency, togetherness, and stability, so that the measure of happiness remains high, always together.

No ivory is without a flaw. No family is perfect. In truth, what exists is a family that always strives to bring warmth so it can be felt by all its members.

By Niharika Jain

Niharika Jain is the founder of The Chai Magazine, with a deep passion for the arts, writing, finance, sports and storytelling. She has been featured as both an artist and writer in multiple publications, including  WIA Magazine, Weaves, Dyonyzine.  

Beyond publishing, she conducts workshops and events aimed at fostering creativity, conversation and expression. Through her work, Niharika strives to uplift human voices across the globe, whether through art, literature, or social impact initiatives.

the grocery cart and alleys

-niharika jain

i was seven and i used to jump around in excitement-

we were going to the grocery mart,

my mother, father, and siblings;

with polythene bags and jute bags stuffed at the back of the car

before i could run into the mart, my father-

pulled me back, ‘don’t take everything.’

rushing to nod, as if i understood, little did he and i both know,

I will still take everything i deem worthy of its presence,

the barbie eraser, the new set of sketch-pens

the new oreo flavour, and the fresh strawberries

before roller-coasters, the grocery carts used to be my go-to ride,

My father and sibling, driving me through the narrow mart alleys,

and during checkout, the racks would always tempt me,

the cadburies, the kinder-joys, the alpenliebe…

i used to make the most cutest face to convince my parents,

first they’ll scold me, then they’ll let me;

if not everything, i used to get almost everything…

now i trot into the mart, one bag stuffed into my pocket,

an electronic box stuck to my hand, as i put everything into my hands,

no carts, just putting everything into my tiny yet rugged hands,

a pack of the same old green lays, the same old orange pringles can,

the invariable blue pen and to top it off, a recurring item,

the mint chewing-gums…

i canter across the mart alleys’,

my exhausted eyes skimming through the barbie erasers,

sketch pens, oreo biscuits, and fresh fruits-

as i get lost in the boulevards,

the laughter of younger me starts echoing, 

the banter of my family starts gnawing at my brain

where was i?

The checkout racks no longer tempting me,

rather mocking me, asking me where has my cutest face gone?

where did the excitement run away, and why am i alone?

where did the jumpy self jump away, leaving this gloomy self

and why is my grip on the electronic box so tight,

while only one hand handled the grocery list?