The World’s Wound

The earth’s chest is pierced, the sky is weeping,
On the grave of peace, the flowers have yellowed.
When will this cruel trial end?
Where has the duty of humanity vanished?

The earth trembles, the sky’s heart is torn,
As if not the sun, but wrath itself is poured.
Look—this horizon isn’t a crimson dusk,
From the veins of the land, blood has gushed.

The lifeless body of a child embraced,
Did you see the tears in a mother’s eyes?
When has the bird of happiness flown from here?
Have you ever asked yourself once?

See, tiny hands frozen,
A shell lies where toys should be.
He didn’t yet know the enemy’s words,
He only knew the mother’s milk.

Look—innocent tears of the little ones,
The soil stained with children’s blood.
These cries did not touch the stones,
Has the light in their hearts gone out?

We spoke of independence, embraced freedom,
Yet the cage of the heart is still the cage of the world.
From which path did we lose our way?
Why is every step a lesson from death?

Peace on your tongue, dagger in your hand—
What kind of hypocritical politics is this?
When will this polluted scene be cleansed?
In the world, the flowers of compassion have withered.

From Your Longing

The sky has cracked from your longing,
Your sigh has reached the gates of heaven.
In the night wounded by noise,
Your voice now searches for me.

The merciless wind blows without pause,
Pouring years of sorrow into my eyes.
Yet a lover stands like you,
Why speak of Majnun at all in this?

Emotions

My gaze lifts to the heavens,
I watch the birds in their bliss.
The spirit of freedom strolls through my heart,
Sharing your pure, innocent being.

Even the trees, and the flowers, hear
My wandering voice like a nightingale’s song.
Without making a sound, within the silence,
I strum my strange, single-stringed tune.

My soul aches, yet the earth endures—
I wipe my tears like pearls at every moment.
How serene is this strange nature,
Gently caressing my face in the soft night breeze.

Marjona Karshiyeva Zoxidjon qizi (born 2010)

Student at the Abdulla Qodiriy Creative School
Poetess
International eco-activist
Holds a B+ in Mother Tongue and Literature
3rd place winner at the 2025 City Stage of the Mother Tongue and Literature Olympiad
1st place winner in the “F” creative category at the “Kamalak Yulduzlari” Children’s Literature Festival, 2022
3rd place winner at the national stage of the “Kamalak Yulduzlari” Children’s Literature Festival, 2023
Her creative works have been published in the book “A Bouquet from the Garden of Creativity”, released among creative schools.

Mortuary

History can never be repeated 

Same water does not flow

In the same stream 

At the same place 

We are all the time 

Doing nothing 

But creating 

Or harrassing history 

History which is in the making 

Wonders why  instead of 

Doing some good 

So that future generations 

Could be happier 

We waste days and months 

In recalling historical personages 

in the name of inspiration 

In their own times 

They did not look back for inspiration 

Time forced them to act 

And they did not lose grace

In the face of temptations

That is what makes them great.

What are we doing ?

We have no such sense of grace 

And spend our time  only 

Remembering their glorious actions 

I have seen history upset 

And irritated with such people 

Who instead of doing their duty 

Towards future, 

Drag the past heroes 

In the present who have 

Nothing to say about the future 

Of mankind 

Which is afflicted by AI.

History is like a corpse 

Kept at a mortuary 

We are doctors who visit 

The mortuary day and night 

And come up with our own theories.

Who  murdered whom and 

What was the exact time 

Corpses do not speak

Only thank us for doting over dead.

Night Song

It’s quiet now, the hills

In a  sleepy trance 

Celebrate the rains

As darkness thickens;

Over a hill town drowsy 

With the rains early this 

Year

Climate change they say

In a chorus, even as the soul

Goes into a stupor,

Conniving with these hills

To wet drying lamps

In a garden which welcomes

The rains as a nocturnal visitor

A guest in this town where the

Rains thrash against the windows

And the hills mournful stamp their 

Signature on a hill town which 

Never ceases to be one

Why will you be a victim

Of climate change? 

You are Shillong in whose 

Murky evenings 

Thunderous rains clap

Into a perennial night song

And These Hills

The infinite zero

The identity of the wind

Swirling like a heavenly body

I cut the wound bleeding from

Past, a lifetime song

Of resusication

The macabre irony of a full proof

Life, is the resistance to it

Come question me sitting

Like a cursed zombie

All in me, mine alone

The wind is now silent

And I drown it in inner seas

Of past, present

A ghostly walk in catacombs

Of a mysterious self

Come love me like 

A quiet rustle of leaves

The wind, the rains, the placid 

Hills

Are mine, mine only.

Step lightly on these hills

Be careful, there are ruptures

Beneath, be careful to love them 

But if you do, make the way 

For them to love you

Otherwise you may lose the road

To eternity.

And these hills.

Ananya S Guha lives in Shillong. He has been writing and publishing his poetry for the last forty years.

THE LINK WEAKENS

In the back corner where Thole makes room for used tools, used wire, second-hand nails, even used books, there is a book entitled “Stress Holds for the Neophyte”.  Most everyone who makes it to the far wall re-sale table thumbs through it.  Picture upon picture, and sometimes drawings, of people, parts bent the wrong way, a road map to control, dominance, punishment.  No one reads the smattering of text on the bottoms and sides of pages.  But we speculate amongst ourselves who might have bought it new, abandoned it – before or after practice – here.  We look for need in faces.

 

THE WEIGHT OF MARRIAGE

My wife was not abducted – she went willingly with the oboists.  For a moment, the notes they were hurling formed the mathematics of music, and she began to dance.  I had not known her to dance before.  Into their clutch she danced, and, as the music fell snarling into disassociated whines, she continued to dance, the center of their affront.  I am going as quickly as I can to salvage from the back of my closet my oboe.  If I can catch them before town limits, it will not be a fair fight, but I have matrimony on my side.

TOLERANCE

We founded our town at the end of the earth.  Not too close, as no one wants to slip into the abyss – but close enough that tour guides can ferry the curious to the edge, travel time justifying the price of a ticket.  Our local economy centers around it, with earth-end hotels, restaurants, and souvenir stands.  Visitors are amazed they can stand at the lip, return to town to exchange experiences at an ordinary coffee shop.  Occasionally, a crowd believing the earth is round blows in.  We don’t argue.  They stay in our hotels, we let them be in error.

UNITY

There is an island in the center of the river where the River People plot against us.  We cannot guess what evil taunts and challenges they are developing for us.  Town Council is always thwarting one plot or another.  Citizens have been briefly abducted by River denizens, come back to town with horrid description of the River People’s lack of humanity.  We are hard pressed to find a logic to their designs.  What we know is that they are in every way counter to ourselves.  When out of-towners observe we have no river and no island, we explain our vigilance.

Sea 

The long and wide sea, full of mystery and magic and danger amidst its beauty. Great is its countenance. Maybe nobody described it such as Joseph Conrad. The sometimes-dark sea, saturnine and rueful. Sea. Ocean. The sands in the shores. All linked together. The world of the water. Vessels. Imagine the coral and the fish, sharks and whales, or the shipwrecks and sunken treasures perhaps ghosts, the phantoms of the depths and saltwater, roam with no need of breathing apparatus. Go and look spirit…pirate first mate captain mere honest passenger who paid their way and was so innocent and unassuming. What millions of secrets still?- UFO bases? Airplanes never found. Unknown species. Sea sea sea. Stories of the sea. Wild. Ocean. To wander its shores and think of it all. 

The Role of Travel in Personal Growth

Travel is more than just visiting new places—it is a journey that transforms the traveler. Experiencing different cultures, meeting new people, and stepping out of familiar environments challenge our perspectives and expand our understanding of the world. Each trip teaches lessons that go beyond sightseeing: patience, adaptability, empathy, and curiosity are all developed through the simple act of exploring.

Travel encourages self-discovery. Being away from daily routines and comfort zones forces us to confront challenges, make decisions independently, and adapt to unexpected situations. We learn about our strengths, weaknesses, and preferences. Every journey leaves a mark, shaping our personality and influencing the way we think, communicate, and approach problems.

Moreover, travel fosters cultural awareness and empathy. Understanding other ways of life allows us to appreciate diversity and rethink assumptions about our own culture. It reminds us that the world is vast, complex, and full of different experiences, and that our individual perspective is only one among many.

In conclusion, travel is a powerful tool for personal growth. It teaches independence, resilience, and understanding, while broadening our worldview. The lessons gained from traveling are not just memories—they become part of who we are, influencing our thoughts, decisions, and how we relate to the world around us.

My name is Nozimova Shukrona, and I was born on January 31, 2011, in Oltiariq district of the Fergana region. Currently, I am a 9th-grade student at the Fergana branch of the specialized school named after Muhammad al-Khwarizmi.

Despite my young age, I have a strong interest in science and creativity. Since my early school years, I have actively participated in various academic competitions. For example, in grades 5–7, I took part in the Hippo English Olympiad and the Kangaroo Mathematics competition, where I had the opportunity to test and improve my knowledge.

In 8th grade, while studying at Specialized School No. 4 in Oltiariq, I was also a member of the “Zakovat” intellectual team, and together with my team, we achieved 4th place in the district competition. During the same year, I ranked among the top 10 in the district stage of the Al-Khwarizmi Olympiad. I have also taken part in many subject Olympiads and achieved high results.

Currently, I am participating in the provincial stage of the History Olympiad, where I continue to demonstrate my knowledge and abilities. In addition, I am a member of my school’s “Zakovat” intellectual team, and we are competing at the provincial level.

Recently, I achieved a B+ level in the National Certificate exam in Uzbek Language and Literature. I am also interested in sports. When I was younger, I practiced gymnastics and won several competitions.

I actively participate in different initiatives and projects, where I not only show my eagerness to learn but also develop my leadership skills. I have clear goals for the future, and my dreams are high.

Good Old Days

A part of growing up in the 1950s and 1960s was the average person’s easy access to things which made us feel good. For a few cents you could enjoy objects and experiences that, with the advent of a perverse capitalistic overreach, became rare and inaccessible. I speak, this time, of coffee, children’s toys and comic books.

COFFEE

For me, Saturday in 1960 is a moment frozen in time. I’m seated next to my father on a faux leather-covered stool at the lunch counter at Reese’s Drug Store in a nameless little town in Illinois. My dad consumes refill after refill of a so-called “bottomless cup” of coffee, available to all comers for ten cents. While dad drank his fill and incinerated a fistful of Old Gold filterless cigarettes, I eagerly consumed a thirty-five cent malted–two and a half glasses full.

What has happened to the venerable cup of joe? In 1960, a pound of coffee cost $.75; adjusted for inflation, that translates to $7.00, an increase by a factor of approximately 10. The price of a cup of Starbucks coffee is presently $3.65, an increase by a factor or more than 35.

And the bastardization of the brew: Starbucks has conjured a monstrosity known as a Super Venti Flat White, which they sold at least once, for some $148.99. What the hell happened to coffee?

TOYS

Time was when a youngster from the poor side of the tracks–like myself–could go to Goodwill or the Salvation Army Thrift Store or to a random neighborhood yard sale and score a coveted toy that only their more prosperous friends could get by conventional means.

Of course, there have always been collectors of rare or unusual items, but sometime in the late 20th century, middleaged men began scooping up GI Joes, Lincoln Logs, Erector Sets, Ponytail Barbies, Easy-Bake Ovens, Spirographs, Hot Wheels, Etch-a-Sketches and the magnificent Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.

There is yet a lot of good play time left in such toys, but these men, who never had and never will have a date, hoard them, put them on a shelf and calculate their appreciated value. They stalk thrift stores, clutching price guide books, shoving little shavers out of their way. There oughta’ be a law!

COMIC BOOKS

When I was a little kid, comic books were fun, they were tradeable and they cost a dime. A nascent collector culture developing at the time priced an Action No. 1 book (the one that introduced the world to Superman) at the unbelievably steep price of $100. I would’ve had to save my meager allowance for two years to accrue such a sum.

The same volume today, according to a well-respected auction house, “can fetch” upwards of $10 million. Now you not only have to be an adult to enjoy this literary nicety, you have to be insufferably wealthy as well. To me, a comic book is forever worth ten cents. And you don’t slide comic books into plastic sleeves.

To inflate its price is to bastardize the institution of “graphic novels” and dump poop on a cherished part of childhood. Nowadays you can’t enjoy the comic book the way it was meant to be enjoyed, by reading it in the bathtub or under the covers with a flashlight; you have to solemnly observe it through a glass screen in an environmentally-controlled chamber, somberly awaiting the day that your comic appreciates from $10 million to $11 million. Yikes!