MY UZBEKISTAN

May your sky always remain clear,

You are my paradise on earth, so dear.

In your gardens, let pomegranates grow,

You are my pride, Uzbekistan, you know!

Your wheat and bread I cherish with my sight,

Each moment you grant me joy and light.

Your kindness lifts me to the skies above,

You are my soul, Uzbekistan, my love!

Your colorful flag waves high in the blue,

It holds the blood of ancestors true.

My tender heart beats for you, my land,

You are my existence, Uzbekistan, so grand!

Even your ruins are palaces to me,

Your deserts turn into gardens I see.

You live forever within my heart’s domain,

You are my soul, Uzbekistan, again!

My name is Munisa Islomjonova, a young poet from Uzbekistan. I am a 10th-grade student at a specialized school in Kosonsoy, Namangan region. From an early age, I discovered that words have the power to express what the heart cannot always say, and since then, writing has become a part of who I am.

I am the author of “Sarhad Bilmas Orzular” (“Dreams Without Borders”), a book that reflects my dreams, emotions, and deep love for my homeland. Through my poetry, I try to inspire others, to show that no dream is too far and no border can limit imagination.

I believe I am only at the beginning of my journey, but my passion for literature continues to grow stronger every day. My goal is to share my voice with the world and leave a meaningful mark through my words.

I can’t keep quiet about this: why do people have no sense of personal boundaries anymore?
Every human being is created unique — from a fingerprint to a single strand of hair.
So why, as time passes, are people trying to dress the same, think the same, behave the same?
Why does “What will people say?” still remains the strongest fear in our minds?
Life is given to us only once.
Even in old stories, this life is described as a test — the result of Adam and Eve’s mistake.
Yet despite that, God Himself says: “Walk the earth I created, see it, live it.”
Then why should we spend our lives imitating someone else?
Why do we immediately label a person as strange if they think differently, choose their own path, or bring a new idea?
Why do we rush to voice opinions no one even asked for?
As for me — I would rather protect my identity than live as a copy of someone else.
Because this is my life: my face, my body, my style, my channel, my blog.
In my opinion, the most foolish person is the one who changes themselves just to please others.
If I want to dance — I’ll dance.
If I want to laugh loudly — I’ll laugh.
If I feel like wearing an eye-catching hairstyle or my favorite clothes — I will.
If I’m overwhelmed and feel like crying — I’ll cry.
This is my personal space.
I don’t have the mindset of: “They didn’t play with me, so I won’t play either.”
I’m not afraid of being different.
And crying over the words of people who don’t matter? To me, that’s completely pointless.
Life is unbelievably beautiful…
Whatever judgments people may have, I will never lose my true self.
For some, I may be a joy; for others, an inspiration; and for others still — someone they can’t quite understand.
But no matter what, I am still one of a kind.
I will always live while respecting my own desires.
And even if I make mistakes sometimes, I’ll have no regrets — because I walked the path I truly wanted.
My conclusion is simple:
Respect yourself. Love yourself.
People’s opinions are nothing more than dust blown away by the wind.

Maxsudbekova Farog‘at Izzatbek qizi (born 2010) is a talented student of the Ogahiy Creative School, as well as a young poet and publicist. Her scientific and literary works have been recognized both nationally and internationally. Farog‘at’s article was published in Turkey’s prestigious academic journal “Bilgi Çeşmesi,” which is indexed in databases acknowledged by the Higher Attestation Commission.

Her poems are regularly featured in well-known national publications such as “Tong yulduzi,” “Ezgu so‘z,” “Gulxan,” and “G‘uncha.” Her works have also appeared in several major anthologies, including “Successful Generation” (USA, Lap Lambert Publishing), “Raven Cage Zein,” and the inter-school anthology “Ijod bog‘idan guldasta,” where her poems have been published multiple times.

Farog‘at manages her own creative channel, where she shares her poetry in collaboration with over 200 fellow young authors. Her article dedicated to Muhammad Rizo Ogahiy was published in South Korea, further strengthening international interest in her literary work.
Today, Farog‘at is known as a promising young literary enthusiast distinguished by her dedication, consistent creativity, and profound love for literature.

Late Happiness

Dark fate knocked on the door twice in a single day: as Bayna momo laid her two beloved ones into the earth, it felt as though not only the sun of that day, but the sun of her entire life had set. The yard fell silent and desolate, the tandoor grew cold, and even the wooden platform by the door lay quiet, as if it too had lost its owner. Once, the sound of a man’s footsteps and her son’s cheerful laughter echoed through this yard. Now, Bayna momo was condemned to live among memories and restless loyalty.

People came and went, offering words of comfort, and then dispersed, each returning to their own concerns. Bayna momo was left alone, face to face with her solitude. At times, she would sit by the hearth, gazing far into the distance, as if waiting for someone from the past to return.

Zamon the horse keeper still walked about the village with pride. Not a trace of regret could be seen in his eyes. Yet in the hearts of the people, heavy words toward him were ripening; all the elderly women of the village cursed him silently from within. Before long, Zamon’s affairs began to fail: all his horses died in a single day, his trade collapsed, and his reputation fell to the ground. People turned away from him. It was as if an invisible curse followed him wherever he went.

One day, Bayna momo went to the market. There, she noticed a young man working as a cart driver. There was a calmness in his face, mixed with a quiet sorrow.

“Thank you, my child,” she said involuntarily.

“Your voice… your gentle voice and your words reminded me of my mother…” he replied, his eyes filling with tears.

From that day on, the yard came back to life. Tea would boil on the platform, the smell of fresh bread would rise from the tandoor, and in the evenings, the quiet conversations of two souls would fill the courtyard. Bayna momo straightened her back, and light returned to her eyes. She no longer thought of the past, but began to think of tomorrow.

The wind blew again. But this time, it was not destructive—it was a warm breeze circling the yard.

Bayna momo finally understood: a human life is made of trials. Some fall while standing against the wind, while others rise again after it passes. Meaning had returned to her life—the happiness of being a mother once more.

Saparboyeva Laylo Xajibay qizi (born in 2010) is a student of the Ogahiy School of Creativity and a young writer.

She began her creative journey in primary school by writing poetry. After a certain break, she returned to literature and is currently working in the field of prose. Her dedication piece titled “I live in Your Heart” was published in the newspaper “Xiva Tongi”.

Laylo actively participates in scientific and practical conferences, where she expresses her ideas and perspectives on literature and creative thinking. In addition, she writes short stories and fanfiction, which she shares on online platforms.

Her works mainly focus on human emotions, inner experiences, and observations of life. In the future, she aims to further develop her creative potential and become an internationally recognized writer.

RAMADAN

Like a lost camel, sad and weary,
I don’t understand how time is passing.
A mysterious cry roars within my heart—
The holy Ramadan is slipping away.

So many sins, countless and easy.
Saying “forgive me, God” is so simple.
Some are careless, some are joyful,
The holy Ramadan is slipping away.

One says, “Faith lives in my heart,”
Another walks the path of injustice.
Have we still not understood even now?
The holy Ramadan is slipping away.

Maqsudova Anora Alisherovna was born on November 2, 2010, in the village of Gazovot, Kushkupir district, Khorezm region. In 2017, she was admitted to School No. 30 in Kushkupir district.

In 2022, while studying in the 5th grade, her first poems were published in a collective anthology titled “The Praise of the Motherland in Hearts.” In 2023, during the 6th grade, her first personal poetry collection titled “A Little Heart’s Gift” was published. Later that same year, several of her poems were also included in the anthology “Hearts Passionate About Creativity.”

In 2023, she won honorable first places at both the district and regional stages of the “Creative Children” competition. That same year, with high results, she was admitted to the “Ogahiy” Creative School in Khiva city as a 7th-grade student.

In November 2023, several more of her poems were published in the collective anthology “Hearts Passionate About Creativity.”

In 2025, while in the 8th grade, her second personal poetry collection titled “Awakened Poems” was published. In addition, a number of her poems were also published in literary collections in Russia, Azerbaijan, and Turkey.

Currently, Anora is studying in the 9th grade at the Ogahiy Creative School.

The Sacrifice

It was early autumn. The world was tinged with gold, and life had once again breathed into the school hallways. The first lesson was Physics. A new teacher, a man with curly hair dressed in a sharp black suit, limped into the classroom. He sat at his desk, his presence unfamiliar to the students. As he moved to the blackboard, they noticed something striking: he was not only lame but also missing his right arm. Using a prosthetic device to hold the chalk, he wrote the date. The students, however, remained indifferent, meeting his attempts at conversation with a cold, mocking silence.

Weeks passed, but the students’ cruelty did not waver. To them, the Physics lesson was merely an opportunity for mischief, and the teacher was nothing more than a target for ridicule, whispered about as “the cripple.” One day, pushed to his limit by a student named Akmal who was throwing paper planes, the teacher intervened. Akmal snapped back with arrogance:

— Give me back my plane! To us, you are nothing but “the cripple”!
The sting of the words cut deep, but before the conflict could escalate, the school principal entered. Sensing the gravity of the situation, he gently asked the teacher, Mr. Rahmatov, to step out for a moment. Turning to the silent class, the principal asked:
— Do you have any idea who this man is? Do you know why he limps?

He then revealed a harrowing truth. Mr. Rahmatov’s youth was forged in the bitter aftermath of the war. During a devastatingly cold winter, he had trekked into a frozen forest to gather firewood for his freezing mother. In that struggle against the elements, his limbs succumbed to severe frostbite. He saved his mother from the cold but paid for it with his own arm and leg.

A heavy silence fell over the room. Guilt washed over the students like a tide. When the teacher finally limped back into the classroom, the students didn’t mock him. Instead, they rushed toward him, embracing him with tears in their eyes and pleading for forgiveness.
— I forgave you long ago, — the teacher replied softly, his own eyes moistening.

From that day forward, everything changed. Physics became the most cherished subject, and Mr. Rahmatov became their most beloved mentor—a man honored not for his disability, but for the depth of his soul and the magnitude of his sacrifice.

Sarvinoz Bakhtiyorova (born in 2011) is considered one of the talented and creative young students of the Ogahiy Creative School. From an early age, she developed a love for literature and has been actively creating works in both prose and poetry. Her interest in poetry emerged early in her life, and her talent began to show during her school years. In particular, while studying in the 5th grade, her first poem titled “Navruz” was published in a collective anthology called “Yangiariq Gulshani,” marking an important step in her creative journey.

Currently, she is studying at the Ogahiy Creative School, where she continues to work on herself consistently, deeply learning the art and intricacies of literature and creative writing. Through her dedication and creative efforts, she is developing into a promising young talent who is expected to achieve even greater success in the future.

Skid Row in Buffalo

It’s snowing in Havana, and I’m stuck in Buffalo,

Without a nickel to my name,

And my pants are falling down because I can’t afford a belt

Of rum, or even a banana,

I used to smoke cigars, drive big old fifties cars, sing rumbas in topless bars, 

But now I’m on skid row, and there’s no skid row like Buffalo.

I want to go back to Havana, even though it’s snowing, nasty winds blowing,

I want to go back and sing a rumba

’Cause you can’t sing a rumba on skid row in Buffalo,

No you can’t sing a rumba on skid row in Buffalo.

It’s snowing down in Rio and I’m stuck in Buffalo,

It’s one-ten in the shade,

And my throat is parched and I can’t afford a lemonade,

Or legal aid or even a pot to piss in;

Oh, I used to date the girl from Ipanema, eat feijoada, sing sambas in topless bars,

But now I’m on skid row and there’s no skid row like Buffalo.

I want to go back to Rio, even if it’s snowing, ill winds blowing,

I want to go back and sing a samba,

‘Cause you can’t sing a samba on skid row in Buffalo,

No you can’t sing a samba on skid row in Buffalo.

I’d rather be in Chicago, where I can sing the blues,

I’d rather be in Italy where I can sing “Volare,”

I’d rather be in Paris where I can sing “La Vie en Rose,”

But I’m stuck up here in Buffalo and I can’t even blow my nose.

I want to go back to Havana, I want to sing a rumba,

I want to go back to Rio, I want to sing a samba,

But what can I sing in Buffalo?

Tell me, what can I sing on skid row in Buffalo?

What can I sing on skid row in Buffalo?

A SOUL BIGGER THAN BORDERS

(International Poet & Author Rev. Dr. Jitender Singh, India)

The world is carved by borders drawn by restless hands,
Yet no line can divide what the silent soul understands.
Languages may differ, and colors may divide,
Yet one ancient echo lives quietly inside.
Some rise with the East, some fade in the West,
Yet one breath of eternity dwells in every chest.
Hatred builds its walls, rigid, fearful, and tall,
But love, like light, still rises—unconquered by all.
We name the Divine in a thousand different ways,
Yet one unseen Light ignites all inner flames.
The body may be bound by the lines we design,
But the soul was born free—untouched by space and time.