My lyrics for world peace

A river of ink, flowing like the Ganges,

sacred and constant, dragging stones of hate,

like the torn down Berlin walls. cleansing the banks of resentment,

like the reconciliation between Mandela and De Klerk.

A tree of words, with deep roots like the olive tree of peace,

branches reaching towards a clear sky,

like the sky over Hiroshima after silence.

leaves whispering promises of calm,

like Gandhi’s prayers for non-violence.

A beacon in the dark night of conflict,

like the Statue of Liberty, a guide of hope.

its light guiding the lost, like Martin Luther King

Jr.’s moral compass pointing the way to understanding,

like the rainbow after the storm.

A mirror reflecting humanity,

like Picasso’s Guernica, testimony to horror and the need for change.

Showing its beauty, like Mona Lisa’s smile, an enigma of serenity.

Its ability to heal, like the resilience of the Japanese people.

A silent embrace, like the embrace of the peoples of Europe

after the Second World War,

enveloping broken hearts,

like the bonds of solidarity between countries

after the Indian Ocean tsunami.

Healing the wounds of war, like the reconstruction of Nagasaki.

A song of hope, like Beethoven’s hymn to joy,

a universal call to brotherhood.

A melody that resonates in the soul,

like the sound of the bells of peace.

Vibrating with the force of peace,

like the force of nature that renews life.

A legacy written in the heart of the earth,

like the sacred scriptures of all cultures,

so that future generations remember,

like the perpetual memory of the Holocaust,

that peace is possible, a future built on empathy and mutual respect.

And on the horizon, a new dawn, painted with the colors of unity

where the seeds of peace flourish, and a bright future, full of hope, lays before us.

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.

The Path to Knowledge

   “Reading is the nourishment of the mind, heart, and soul.” — Virginia Woolf

Aziza lived in a small town, her heart full of dreams and aspirations. She loved learning, and her eyes sparkled with the desire for knowledge. But her parents, like many others in their community, held traditional views. They believed that girls were meant to focus on home duties and marriage, not academics.

Every time Aziza expressed her dream of studying, her parents would gently but firmly discourage her. “Girls are not made for education,” her mother would say, “they are meant to be wives and mothers.” Her father, too, was insistent that marriage was the best path for her. But Aziza couldn’t let go of her dreams. Her heart yearned for a different life, a life where she could learn, grow, and make her own choices.

One day, after yet another attempt from her parents to convince her to accept a marriage proposal, Aziza made a bold decision. She had already prepared all the documents she needed to apply to university, secretly working on them in the quiet of her room. She knew that her parents would never understand, but she was ready to stand up for her future.

“Why can’t you just be like other girls?” her mother asked, frustrated. “You’re not thinking of your family.”

Aziza looked her mother in the eye, her voice steady but filled with determination. “This is my life. I deserve the chance to chase my dreams, to be educated and find my own path.”

Her parents were taken aback. They had never seen such courage in their daughter. After a long silence, they realized that their love for her should allow her to choose her own way. With heavy hearts but a new understanding, they finally gave her their blessing.

Aziza faced many challenges along the way. Moving to the city was not easy. She felt lonely, overwhelmed by the fast-paced life, and sometimes doubted herself. But each time she stumbled, she reminded herself why she was there: for her dreams. For her future.

One day, after a phone call with her parents, Aziza realized that they had come to accept her decision. They were proud of her strength and her courage. That moment marked a turning point, where both Aziza and her family understood that education was not just a choice — it was a right.

Aziza completed her studies and became a successful professional. But more than that, she had proven to herself and others that no obstacle was too great when it came to pursuing your dreams.

I am Nurmatova Aziza Oybek’s daughter I was born on August 21, 2005 in Nurota district of Navoi region. Currently, I am a 2nd-year student at Navoi State University, Faculty of English Language and Literature. I have taken pride of place in reading contests, as well as a participant in international seminars and meetings. I am a winner of contests and competitions dedicated to corruption and a finalist of the “Discussion” contest.

Intersections

Along the way

there are other

paths, joining, re-

joining, leading

away from. Unknown

until you try them

out. What are you

missing? What

are you missing

out? What are

you missing out

on? Along the way

there are / other

paths. Leading

into. Leading onto.

Untried until you

find the joins, un-

known because of

missed conjunctions.

Ecology

One measure is the

earth & how

we stand on it,

watching things grow

& measuring our

growth against them.

The other is the sky

& how we hang

from it, taking

its temperature as if

it were a patient, &

we patient with it.

Laying Plans

How are we

supposed to know

that it’s a “spare the

air” day? Certainly

it has a sort of

maverick quality

to it, but that doesn’t

necessarily mean

we’re living in tough

times; & crash dummies

in minicars always

fare comparatively

poorly in collisions

with the economic

consequences of the

high Italian budget

deficit. The symbolic

use of flowers dates

back to antiquity. Why

must we sacrifice &

shop in a one-room

shack when a whole

mall awaits us?

The Emperor’s Butterfly

(with Martin Edmond)

All the lights went out. The sun disgorged a dust of insects. Microbes crawled from the disintegrated carapaces.

He sensed them marching in serried ranks towards the lesions in his skin. His hands could not find the switch. For a nanosecond a shell of fear encased him. His trembling broke it. Then he acted.

Reaction first. Interrogated the night but it had nothing to say, was full of aliases, none of them his. He felt like Schrödinger’s cat – but where was Schrödinger?

The air was full of dis-ease. Space was the uncertainty principle. Time was not his friend.

This was not an experiment, it was slaughter. The rustling battalions had already breached his integument, were immune to his response. His massing white cells were being massacred. Defense is knowing when to run.

Afterwards, he never knew exactly how he got away. Surmised that just as there were lines of force there must be lines of weakness, and the pale pupa that was his soul had somehow broken one and used the other to lift off.

His new wings were like nothing else in the world.

The Ladybug in My Home

In my home, by the bright-lit pane,

a ladybug hid one Friday late.

Winter whispers with its breath so cold,

but she dreams of dawns so warm and gold.

Beneath my roof, in a quiet room,

sleeps the crimson-dotted bloom.

She waits for spring to spread its wings,

to flutter freely through the fields.

She speaks to me with eyes so bright:

“Protect me a little, I’ll brave the night.

When the first bloom scents the air so sweet,

I’ll soar into the sun’s retreat.”

And I reply, “You’re safe right here,

my hands will guard you, soft and dear.

When March appears and the sun shines true,

I’ll set you free, fair dreamer, you.”

My Uzbekistan 

Thank you today

I took a pen in my hand.

I read a lot of your past,

I thought for a moment.

He did not see days,

It’s enough, be patient.

Your deserts have become dust,

Give light from independence.

My grandmother’s eyes are wet with joy.

Never tie it dry,

The land inherited from my ancestors,

I am the land that God has looked at.

Munisa Azimova is a student of the 8th grade of the 20th school of Bukhara.