It is dedicated to our young athletes who went to the Olympics You are the honor and pride of the nation, You are the original creator of the nation facing the world, You can’t live without the blood of Temurbegu alpomish.
All your native people are praying for you Bring home gold and silver medals! Who has seen the brave girls of my Uzbeg, Be proud of the words of our president, May joy fill those dark eyes of yours, Be proud, don’t let any of your mines fall off the mountain Bring home gold and silver medals. Let history be kind to you, let youth give you courage May God bless you with good luck and happiness
Be such a great person, a building for the future Being born in this country is your real happiness Bring home gold and silver medals. Such a dear place has raised a child like you If he sacrifices for this country, even his life is worth it Uzbekistan is an epic for the whole world
Tell you that I am an Uzbek that the world cannot match Bring home gold and silver medals.
Bullets fed a young lad’s body when I hid myself under charred bones of my people, we could only see peace in the stories my grandmother told when sanity was still by her side, she could fiction reality into a charming tale. Even though she smelt like war and bullets, she still knitted her country’s anthem to her heart. This is not a tale of a patriotic woman who died as humus for the soil, but simply a plea to let a wandering soul lie peacefully at my backyard.
If only life was a song sang by mother when my father came back with his limbs complete and a head on his body with his uniform hung behind his bruised back . My family is a mindless holocaust of a barbaric nation who spells peace in the letters of protests.
My father left with fear glued to his mind, he left a wife with fear of her husband coming back in letters he wrote to formalize his good-byes, my mother became a canvass of pain holding my father in myriads of memories.
When death hung under my throat; I could taste its stinging taste. Oh lord……., I beseech you, those words were strangers to my tongue. Who knew lord when I worshipped the bullets that dug holes in my body; I held tears in my heart not ready to flood this burning country. I’m still alive waiting to be burned by the flames of a lost country. So now tell me how to define a country with lost homes I lived in?
Fatima Abdulwahab is a 16 year old poet and essayist. Her hobbies are writing and also reading. She enjoys the company of her family and friends. She was long listed in the African writers award competition 2023 and also the winner of the Arts lounge magazine ( the greens we left behind edition).
The Light Reaching Out
Night shades
compressing into the corner windows
setting the scene
blurring of dreams
walls and ceilings
slow leaning inward
beyond the outside buildings
dimly lit
someone
quietly whistling
much has happened
much will continue
cancer webs hanging from the roofs
so many marked for the sting
political pillows given away freely
spider roots
the masses shadow banned
but more are beginning not to blink
open windows here and there
candle lights glowing in closets
a shot sounding
and the whistling snuffed
thoughts shrink
stillness overwhelming
but there's always some that break
loose
lips moving
prayers filling hollow ears
so many repeating
as when a child
the longness of centuries
giving a tune to the heart
silence
seized
light opening their windows
as the whistling resumes
stronger than ever before.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, never knowing when he will be allowed to escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at The Rye Whiskey Review, Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Asylum Floor. He has a new chapbook out with Casey Renee Kiser titled Altered States of The Unflinching Souls. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Write something bright for those who experience a thousand deaths each day.
Write some smiles for those whose pillows are moist with tears each night.
Write a few pure moments of love for those who could never call anyone their own.
Write a few droplets of soothing dew on their lips.
Write true happiness in their pounding hearts.
Write the fulfillment of unrealized dreams in their eyes.
Write floral bracelets of joy for their soft hands.
Write swinging earrings of solace for their ears.
Even if you write nothing else, dear Lord,
You must write freedom for them.
Photo descriptions: Top, a young woman with light skin and dark hair reading books and handing pages of paper to girls in headscarves. Bottom, young woman in a black dress standing in front of a leafy tree.
Anila Bukhari, a remarkable young girl with a heart as kind as the sunflower fields of her childhood in Pakistan. Growing up in a village, she was surrounded by the beauty of nature and the wisdom of her grandmother, who shared tales that shaped Anila’s compassionate spirit. When her grandmother passed away when Anila was just 12, she found solace in writing poetry, a way to keep her beloved granny’s spirit alive.
Through perseverance and dedication, Anila’s poetic voice resonated far beyond the borders of her village. By the age of 17, she became a published author, using her words to advocate for the voiceless in society. Anila’s compassion knew no bounds as she conducted poetry workshops for refugees and orphans in Uganda, Africa, and Bangladesh, spreading hope and healing through her verses.
Anila’s passion for education and empowerment led her to establish Girls’ Education Awareness Day in numerous countries worldwide, impacting the lives of countless young girls. Her efforts were recognized globally, earning her prestigious awards for her advocacy and humanitarian work. Anila Bukhari’s journey is a testament to the power of kindness, resilience, and the transformative impact of a single voice raised for those in need.
