A Devoted Soul
(To the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan, Shavkat Miromonovich Mirziyoyev)

You burn with care both day and night,
For your homeland, you bear the pain.
Even the sharpest, finest pen
Would fall short trying to explain.

You’re a true heir of Amir Temur,
We’ve seen justice’s mighty reign.
The people pray with lifted hands,
For you have shared in all their pain.

You have sought the children’s future,
Your Five Initiatives show this well.
Science and high spirituality—
The only paths where hope may dwell.

Culture shows our humanity,
And sport ensures our health today.
This age we live—technology’s own,
Let readers’ numbers rise, we pray.

“A woman is the world’s stronghold,” they say,
Now they are under the state’s protection.
Thanks to you, their worth has risen,
You’ll live in history’s reflection.

Today our homeland shines with pride,
Sky-touching buildings rise so tall.
Great minds like Navoi and Sino,
Would smile to see our youth at all.

Because of you, our skies are clear,
You lead us swiftly toward success.
For our nation’s growth and glory—
Know we stand with you, nothing less!

Gulshoda Jo‘rabekovna Baxtiyorova was born in 2004 in Bogʻot district of the Khorezm region. From 2011 to 2020, she studied at Secondary School No. 17 in Bogʻot district. She actively participated in the “Knowledge Competition” in the subject of mother tongue and literature, earning honorary places. In 2018, her poetry collection titled “Ona yurtim” (“My Homeland”) was published. From 2020 to 2022, she studied at the academic lyceum under Urgench State University.

In 2022, she became the winner of the regional stage of the Science Olympiad in the subject of mother tongue and literature and actively participated in the national stage. Currently, she is a 3rd-year student at the Faculty of Philology and Arts at Urgench State University. Under the scientific supervision of Nasiba Jumaniyazova, Candidate of Philological Sciences and Associate Professor at Urgench State University, she is conducting research on the works and unique characteristics of the Tajik poet Asqar Mahkam. Her scientific articles have been published in prestigious journals in Indonesia, India, the USA, and Germany.

She is an official member of Kazakhstan’s “Qo‘sh qanot” Writers’ Union, Egypt’s Iqra Foundation, the All India Council for Technical Skill Development, the National Human Rights and Humanitarian Federation, and the Global Friends Club. She has successfully completed training courses organized by the International Europe Academy, Great Learning Academy, and UNICEF.

CROWNING BLOWS

Our founders didn’t plan a standing army.

Said, “Keep your guns. If ever we’re attacked,

fight back.” And yet the Continental Army

grew and grew. Today, its job is clear:

safeguard citizens from threats and harm.

Don’t be the threat—tear-gassing protest groups,

or shooting rubber bullets into crowds

to punish rebel rallies, menace them

with National Guardsmen, troops of tough Marines.

The army wasn’t meant to be an axe–

behead dissent, make Presidents into Kings.

President craved a warrior parade—

like North Korea’s storm-troopers and tanks.

So on his birthday, he has big, big plans—

impress Blue States, the MAGA crowd, the world

with how much fearsome force he can unleash

by snapping fingers. He—the chief, the star!

His birthday falls on an auspicious day.

He’ll mark the army’s anniversary

like no one’s ever seen– a huge parade!

Intimidate with grim, jackbooted troops.

a $45 million birthday bash!

June 14^th dawns hot, with drizzling rain.

So what? The show goes on. And on. And on–

down D.C. streets. The smattering of folks

that wait and watch are silent. You can hear

one hundred thirty tanks go squeaking by,

thirty-four horses, two old army mules.

Here come the hand-held drones, and robot dogs

whose jerky marching entertains the kids.

Platoon upon platoon in serried ranks–

Six thousand soldiers saunter past in camo,

walking out-of-step. Some even wave.

“The tone’s all wrong!” the pissed-off POTUS roars.

“I wanted troops that paralyze with fear.”

Berates his birthday present. Showers blame.

Looks glum, and naps. Some VIPs watch, yawning.

News videos show empty rows of bleachers.

Empty folding chairs outnumber full.

But he rewrites the pricey flop. Invents

a madly cheering mob! Huge numbers! Huge!

Meanwhile, all across the USA,

two thousand towns or more host record crowds–

Five million demonstrators fill the streets

with heartfelt, home-made protest signs and feet.

In Utah, wheelchairs leave the nursing home

and roll out on the streets to wave their flags

and question health-care cuts, their lives at stake.

Red States, Blue States, finally one voice:

       No one’s paying me to resist Fascism.

       If there’s money for a parade,

there’s money for Medicaid.

       Eggs are scarce, ‘cause chickens are in Congress.

       OMG, GOP! WTF?

       Even Ikea has better cabinets.

       Take a stand now, or bow down later.

       A King? No FAUX-king way!

No Kings! No Kings! Chains of human resolve

stretch for blocks. In some cities, for miles.

Peaceful, but expressing deep concerns:

immigration seizures, health care, tariffs,

Social Security, free speech, civil rights.

Over it all, the war cry of democracy:

we’re not the pawns of power. We are free.

No Kings! No Kings! You hear our voice? No Kings!

TRUMP’S WAR

Operation Midnight Hammer included seven B-2 Spirit Bombers, 125 total aircraft, and more than 75 precision guided weapons…

The largest operational strike in U.S. History.” –CBS News, 6/2025

Yo, Trump! Did you start World War III today?

Iran and Israel have been at odds.

So Netanyahu winks at Trump and nods.

Trump plans a strike, and stealth bombers obey.

We bomb three nuclear sites without okay

of Congress. Unprovoked attacks– Ye gods!

Will this uplift his sagging polls? Or prod

a larger war— a Middle East melee?

“Bone spurs” exempted him from wartime action

He thinks combat’s a cinch. His ace? The Bomb.

His lame parade’s eclipsed by this distraction.

Great press: Trump leads with boldness and aplomb!

Thinks war’s a lucrative, if lethal, sport.

He may yet build that swank Gaza resort.

TRUMP’S WAR: IRAN’S RESPONSE

After the bomb-strike, swift retaliation. 

Well, what did you expect? A medal? No!

You killed civilians! Bombed our towns! And so

your rationale rings hollow to a nation

using uranium for power, not bombs.

U.S. Intelligence confirms these facts.

Yet you join Israel’s feud, committing acts

of war! To flex your muscles? Vietnam’s

a faded memory? Afghanistan

forgotten? There are stand-offs no one wins.

We sign a nuclear treaty meant to ban 

nuke weapons. But it’s you, Trump, who rescinds.

Now you slap our face and think you’ll run?

Run fast! A bloodbath threatens everyone.

Firelight

The firelight warmed our toes

on a frosty night.

Fall had arrived.

There was a chill in the air.

We toasted our glasses

as a cold front hit.

Rain wrapped Tornado

A rain wrapped tornado

swirls around high in the sky.

Dark clouds

hover overhead.

Taking shelter,

we are spared from the storm.

Mary Bone has been writing poetry and short stories since childhood. Some of her poems have appeared in Synchronized Chaos, Poetry Catalog, Literary Revelations, Active Muse Journal, Blaze Vox Spring Journal of Voice and other places. Upcoming poetry has been accepted at Feed the Holy and Our Poetry Archive.

KOREAN CUISINE
By: Mahmudova Sevara Doniyor qizi
Student of the 4th year, Korean Philology
Kimyo International University

Annotation:
This article presents a selection of Korean dishes. It also explores certain aspects of Korean food culture.

Keywords: Bibimbap, Bungeoppang, Hotteok, Liliya Tyan

---

Introduction:

Today, we can observe that some Korean dishes and the ingredients needed to prepare them at home — including salads — are becoming increasingly available in stores. Korean eateries and restaurants are also growing in number. Why is the interest in Korean food increasing year by year? Let’s take a closer look at the reasons behind this trend.

---

Main Body:

One of the most popular dishes among Koreans and foreigners alike is bibimbap. With its colorful presentation, it is visually appealing at first glance. Professor and physician Kang Je Hon stated that this dish is very beneficial for health. “It is made with rice, various green vegetables, and small portions of fish or meat,” he explained. Due to its low calorie and carbohydrate content, as well as its attractive appearance, it is also widely consumed by foreigners.

Bungeoppang is one of the popular winter snacks. It is shaped like a fish and made from dough using a special mold. There are many varieties, such as pizza-flavored, cream-filled, chocolate-filled, and more. This dish has even appeared in Korean dramas (K-dramas), through which many drama fans have come to know it. Since it looks similar to ingeoppang, people often confuse the two. However, there is a difference: bungeoppang has a thick, crispy crust, while ingeoppang has a thinner, oilier dough. They are entirely different snacks.

Another popular winter snack is hotteok. It originated from bread consumed in Turkey and India and entered Korea via China along the Silk Road. It is entirely different from the American hot dog. Visually, it resembles khachapuri, which is often seen online. The dough is leavened and filled with brown sugar, honey, and sunflower seeds. There are also versions filled with vegetables, cheese, and kimchi. This snack has recently gained popularity among Americans and is well-liked by many.

Liliya Tyan, a Korean-Uzbek featured on “Voice of America,” is the owner of the “Cafe Lily” restaurant. In 2006, she won the Green Card lottery and moved to the U.S. with her family. She later opened her own restaurant, “Cafe Lily.” What sets her restaurant apart is its unique menu, which includes Korean, Russian, and Uzbek dishes. “Uzbeks have lived with Koreans for a long time, so especially the elderly remember Korean food fondly,” said Liliya Tyan. Her restaurant has even been featured in The New York Times.

Koreans have a proverb similar to the Uzbek saying: “Hot cuts hot, cold cuts cold.” That’s why Koreans eat hot foods in summer and cold foods in winter. For example, they eat ice cream in winter, just as Uzbeks drink hot tea in summer. Some even eat ice cream after spicy foods because of a belief that consuming hot food in summer increases body temperature, helping the body adapt to the heat.

Koreans also have a cultural habit of asking, “Have you eaten?” when greeting one another — similar to how Uzbeks say, “How are you?” This style of greeting dates back to the war period in Korea, when famine was widespread. People would greet each other by asking if they had eaten, and over time, it became a cultural norm.

There is also a cultural custom related to the apple fruit. Among peers, if someone makes a mistake and wants to apologize, they offer the other person an apple. This symbolizes asking for forgiveness.

---

Conclusion:

The history of Korean cuisine dates back centuries. Many of its dishes have developed over time. There is limited information available in Uzbek on this topic online. With further study, we can find many Korean foods that are beneficial to health — even useful in medicine. Their dining etiquette and food culture also share similarities with that of Uzbeks.

---

References:
Books:

• Kim Seon Jung, Park Sung Tae, Kim Sung Su – Self-Study Guide: Korean for Uzbek Speakers, Level 2

Web Sources:

1. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cy1WjUtc8eo
2. https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&opi=89978449&url=http://blog.naver.com/kfdazzang/223353033219%3FfromRss%3Dtrue
3. https://m.blog.naver.com/dkcaihong/221781366287
4. https://www.amerikaovozi.com/a/cafe-lily/5890303.html

ترجمتي لنص: peace 

للشاعرة اليونانية: إيفا بيتروبولو ليانو/EVA Petropoulou Lianou 

 سَلام  

نَدفَعُ أرواحَنَا ثَمَنًا 

لقَرَاراتٍ اِتَّخَذَها الآخَرُونَ..  

لأَنَّهُم يَنظُرُونَ إِلَى جُيُوبِهِم  

وَلا يُبَالُونَ بِأَمْنِ الكَوْنِ!  

لِمَاذَا تَنْشَبُ الحُروبُ؟  

و دائمًا، ذات الإجابة  

لَا أَحَدَ يَعلَمُ!  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَكَلَّمَ،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَواصل،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَتَقَبَّلَ،  

تَعَلَّمْ أَنْ تَحتَرِمَ.  

سَلام..  

كَلِمَةٌ نَادِرَةٌ فِي هَذِا الكَوْكَبْ  

مُذ أن وُجِدَ البَشَرِ  

كَانت السَّكِينَةُ امتيازًا لِقِلَّة!  

اِفهَمْ،  

اِستَمِعْ،  

اِصْمُتْ،

تلك هي سُّننٌ يُبنى بها غدٌ زاهٍ.

أَمَل..  

كَيْ لَا يَنَامَ اللَّيْلَةَ طِفْلٌ  

دُونِ وَالِدَيْهِ!  

صلُّوا،

لتحفّ ملائكةُ الرحمة

كلَّ البيوت.

©®إيفا بيتروبولو ليانو 

—  

*ترجمة أدبية تحافظ على الإيقاع الشعري وتضفي لمسةً من البلاغة العربية، مع احترام روح النص الأصلي.*

 PEACE,

We pay with our lives

Decision others took

Because they are looking at their pockets

And not at the safety of the planet

Why a war is happening?

Always the same response

Nobody knows

Learn to talk

Learn to communicate 

Learn to accept

Learn to respect

Peace,

So rare in this planet

Since the existence of the humans

Quiet was a privilege for few

Understand,

Listen

Be silent

Those are the rules for a bright future

Hope,

No children will sleep 

Without his parents tonight

Pray,

For Angel’s protection

To everyone’s house

The Wandering Hat 

It was a summer night,

the stars were mirrors of a wandering soul,

my friend, a whisper of wind in the countryside,

decided that life was a vibrant song.

We boarded the train, an iron leviathan,

devouring the tracks with its fiery breath,

but in a twist in the fabric of time,

his hat, a balloon, rose into the present.

The train, a river of steel in its bed,

took its emblem, its shadow on the journey,

and he, like a navigator in search of a lasso,

ran after his star, his light, his passenger.

Laughter and wailing danced in the air,

as the train vanished into the gloom,

my friend, a poet in his own disdain,

promised he would return, and he did so in the mist.

In the end, she understood that the waves of fate

sometimes require us to let go of what overwhelms us,

like a hat that flies along a road,

laughter is a compass, and the journey, a feather.

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

WHEN AUTUMN CARRIES HER NAME

At this very moment, you’re in the city, where traffic bustles all around. You wander through the book street, a little lost, stopping now and then to chat aimlessly with a young university student who, just seconds earlier, was staring out the window, perhaps counting raindrops or lost in thoughts that weighed on her heart. It’s autumn in Saigon, though you can’t tell where summer ends or winter begins. All you feel is a mess of emotions, a flood of memories, longing, and affection threading through every bone, aching like winter cold.

To you, she was all four seasons. But you liked to call her Pandora, yours alone. She was Saigon’s rainy and sunny days, tender green, the scent of lotus. She could be Saigon’s fall, Hue’s winter, Dalat’s pine forest, or a foreign ocean shore, you never tried to pinpoint her. All you needed to know was that somewhere, you lived in her heart, and she always reigned in the left chamber of yours. She was a realm of your thoughts, a blooming golden lily, a small alley, and Saigon in autumn.

You closed your eyes, and you were somewhere inside a fairytale garden. Dewdrops sparkled purple and crimson on the grass, reflecting the sunlight filtering through the sky. You wandered around the garden, the sunflowers drooped while the last asters stretched upward, clinging to bloom.

“You’re late,” her voice was soft and warm, like a breath of autumn, like a leaf fluttering gently. Music drifted through the chill air. She was right there, beside you, yet loneliness still lingered in the wide-open space.

She whispered something about music you didn’t fully grasp, but you listened anyway, drawn to the fragrance in her gentle voice. She spoke of rock and pop tinged with wistful chimes, of bittersweet ballads strummed by a distant guitar, of unrequited love, of death beneath decaying trees, and of mournful melodies. The leaves turned golden, and the morning air was brisk and clear. You watched her, so vibrant in a pastoral scene full of allure. Through her voice, music became innocent and luminous. Somewhere, a violin solo began to rise, just a bit more skilful, a bit more joyful and the crisp late-autumn air pulled you deeper into her presence. Her voice, its softness and seduction, merged with the crackle of leaves underfoot. At times, her eyes lit up with a radiant smile.

She wore pale brown boots, a grey knit sweater, a delicate scarf, and a silky A-line skirt. Around her fair wrist, a glittering bracelet fastened with Pandora’s iconic clasp and sparkling stones. In a tender moment, she removed it, handing you a single silver Pandora Moments charm, an emerald star. They said nothing more. Just listened to music playing softly from her tiny phone. You were overwhelmed by a serene intimacy, a sweet romance. The sound was like a soul-deep embrace, one you never wanted to end. You felt a deep, almost aching familiarity, as if nothing in life could surpass this. Listening to heartfelt music, sitting beside a graceful, intelligent woman, you knew then that this was the one you wanted to spend your life with.

When the song ended, all you wanted was to tell her how much you wanted her, needed her, loved her. You wanted to open your arms, pull her close, and place a warm, earnest, and pure kiss on her lips, a kiss of that perfect morning, of youth. Some melodies seem powerful enough to change everything. And yet, you couldn’t move. You just stood there, frozen, until her footsteps faded and only the light rustle of falling leaves remained in the air.

Back in the city, you couldn’t forgive your own hesitation. A block of ice had formed in the middle of that floating autumn. The discomfort lingered for weeks, then months. Every time you woke up, every afternoon after work, every night before sleep, she was there. Her image filled Saigon’s streets, radiant, clear, confident. Autumn passed. Winter came. Seasons changed. Encounters came and went, but your fear never left. You feared shattering the fragile autumn clouds, feared a gust of wind blowing in the wrong direction, feared her scarf wrinkling when the music hit its climax.

You saw her again and again, in that garden, on crowded streets. Each time, you wanted to say something, but the words collapsed inside, your limbs trembled like you had a fever. Each afternoon after work, you wandered aimlessly, mind blank, staring at your coffee cup and a bare wall, ignoring every phone call, never logging into Facebook.

Until one day at the end of August, what strange force gave you the courage to finally hold a girl’s hand, to kiss her cheek softly, scented with purple flowers? That girl, with fair wrists, a gleaming silver bracelet, high heels, and a floral dress. And at that moment, a familiar tune echoed, a gentle fragrance lingered. You were overwhelmed; your heart throbbed as if struck by a sudden storm.

She stood there, watching you and the girl, or maybe lost in Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. The horizon opened before you in shades, but what lingered deepest was the brown of fallen leaves and the gray of her knitted sweater. The scene was pristine, canopied in green, sky scattered with clouds. It deepened your view of things. And now, every time you return to the city, you ask yourself: Who am I in this life? Why does the Pandora charm in your left coat pocket still glow with warmth? And when will you ever forget her, especially when autumn returns to Saigon?

Võ Thị Như Mai is a Vietnamese-Australian poet, translator, and cultural contributor currently living in Western Australia. Her writing explores themes of memory, identity, diaspora, and the quiet power of everyday life. With a deep love for both Vietnamese and English literature, she often bridges the two through translation and creative expression. Như Mai’s poems have been featured in various literary platforms, and she actively participates in international poetry and cultural exchange events. Her work is marked by sensitivity, lyrical grace, and a strong connection to her cultural roots. Her work was featured in BRUSHSTROKE WA 2023 and in recognition of her contributions to cultural and literary exchange, she was recently honoured by the Consulate General of Vietnam in Australia for promoting Vietnamese literature and arts abroad