Tanja Ajtic was born in Belgrade, Serbia. She lived and studied in Serbia. She is a poet and a writer but she is also an artist. She also deals with fine graphics. Since 2002, she lives and creates in Canada. Moved to Belgrade, Serbia 2023. Tanja Ajtic is a member of many groups and associations. In Serbia, she is a member of the prestigious Society of Writers of Belgrade. Her poems and stories have been published: two hundred collections (books), anthologies and electronic books. Her poems have been published in twelve languages.
She published a book, Outlines of Love. She participated with books and anthologies at many fairs in the world with other authors. In 2024 and 2025, Ajtic collaborated with Indian poet Sourav Sarkar on two joint poetry collections that present two works by the poet in one book. – She won second prize in Great Britain from the Serbian Library in London (2019). – She won III World Prize for Excellence ;Cesar Vallejo; 2021 in the category of artistic excellence Lima, Peru, by the World Spanish Union of Writers and International Award of Excellence; from the World Spanish Union of Writers, UHE Mexico.
She won the I International Award of Excellence “Cita Del Glateo” Antonio De Ferrariis, IX edition 2022 – Rome, Italy, a prestigious award in the group of poets for the English language (IX edition of the award for foreign poetry in English) in 2022, Rome, Italy. – Winners of Foundation Naji Naaman literary prize iz 2023; (21 st Edition), from the Republic of Lebanon, Honor Prize (for complete work) for Literary prizes 2023. Poetry for the competition was submitted in three languages: English, French and Arabic. – Winning the 2023 “Zheng Nian Cup” Literary Award – Third Prize by the Beijing Mindfulness Literature Museum, China. – Winning Third Prize, Friedrich Schiller International Literary Competition (2025). She is the winner of many awards, diplomas and certificate. She is currently writing poetry, short stories, haiku, and Gogyoshi poetry as well as freelance graphic design.
It is not the silence that extinguishes, but the fire that stills,
the way in which the ashes still hold the warmth of the embers.
You are the vessel where pain, poured little by little,
loses its sharp edges, becomes water that does not break.
Loss is not an abyss that swallows the light,
it is the earth turned over, deep, ready to receive.
I sowed memories like grains, not to ask for your return,
but to see what we had grow, into roots that do not die.
Here, where the river of anguish widens and slows,
I find that peace is not reaching a distant shore,
but learning to navigate even when the water moves,
taking you with me, light as the air I breathe.
We are this slow alchemy: what was, transforms,
does not disappear, changes shape, becomes part of me.
And so, we walked together, now weightless, without farewell,
with the calm of a stone that knows how to be part of the path.
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’s 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.
Your smallest word is enough— just that little whisper, yet it comes like a Boishakhi storm braided with torrents of rain.
It flows in an unbroken current, through ages beyond memory, stirring silent uproars deep within my chest.
Laughter and tears descend together, like rain bending every vine, every shrub, every tree. Nature itself becomes a heavenly message of grace,
finding its way into the lightless, blind corridor. Who is left to notice?
Across the grey horizon, along an endless untamed trail, someone suddenly asks,
“How have you been?”
That single sentence casts its spell over everything. Like the fragrance of dawn breaking an ancient silence,
something within me— something beyond words— quietly becomes something else.
Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh
08 July, 2026.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
Once when he was in grade ten in 1990, his Bangla letter was selected as the best one from Deutsche Welle, Germany Radio that broadcast Bangla news for the Banglalee people. And he was given 50 Dutch Mark as his award. They would ask letters from the listeners to the news in Bangla and select one letter for the best one in every month.
From 17 to 30 September, in 2018 he received a higher training in teaching English language in Kasetsart University of Thailand for secondary level students through a government order from education ministry.
On 06 November 2015 he achieved Amjad Ali Mondal Medal for his contribution in education field by a development organization in the conference and felicitation function for the honorable personalities at Rajshahi College Auditorium.
On 30 December 2017 from West Bengal in India he was declared a ‘Literary Charioteer’ in Bangobandhu Literary and World Bango Conference and they awarded him with a Gold Medal in their International Literary Conference and Prize Giving Ceremony.
In 2018, he achieved Prodipto Lirerary Award in Prodipto Literary Conference at Kesorhat, Rajshahi for poems in Bangla literature. He received honorary crest from the administration of Chapainawabganj District Literary Conference and Cultural Function in 2021 and 2022 consecutively.
His poems have been published in many international online magazines such as Juntos Por las L Raven Cage Zine, and Area Felix. His poems have been translated and published in Argentine and Serbian, and he participated in many international online cultural meetings.
I contemplate a lot. I ponder over my mind, my prejudices and my existence. It makes me express myself through words and colours.
Fragment 1
There is a light, I believe
At the end of the tunnel
Shimmering, blinking
To show the hapless souls
The meaning of life.
There is a light, I hope
At the far end of a tunnel,
Hope to see
Not its death
Its constant struggle
Against the rough winds
And the hammering silhouettes.
Burning flames, burning flames
Flicker but not yield.
Burning flames, burning flames
Pose like a crumbled soul;
Remaining ashes
Pose like a crooked nail;
Moisture, dewdrops, lavender,
Skin of oaks, landmine, sound of those
Savage disasters, elusive memory,
Knightly armour, tattered jackets, wet soils
Uncharted vision- all I want
From the daybreak to the last ray of hope.
Till then, burning flames,
Seek, strive,
As there is a light at the end
Of doubt and denial:
Conquerable and
Solemn.
6 the September
2021
Trash box
We throw garbage in a garbage box. Unknowingly, we throw a fragment of ourselves in the box; we throw our skins and unknowingly we look down upon at the wastages. So, what is it doing in the box? How long?
16 December
2021
Fragment 2
Contemplating over things: Mind’s progress
I. Similarities
It feels like air
When someone sleeps,
Seems like a box of stones has been dragged out
Pacified
Hollow like balloon.
It feels like river
When the sweat trickles down from forehead
And touches someone’s knees,
It is cold like water
When the fan runs in full swing.
It feels like a jolt
When the bus driver hits a break,
Seems like one discovers oneself
And starts searching for the past skins
Of the past times
In the road
Once travelled
Of his livelihood.
07.11.2022
II. The Pain
My mind needs a sheet
To cover itself up
For camouflage
For hiding from the wind
As it carries the unwanted thoughts
Of different times,
Thought about bodies,
Uncertainties,
Failures;
My mind does not halt for a moment
I like a sleepwalker try to cut the entrance door
To have a look
Of the sunny mornings
Of its other side;
Gloomy, it sounds
Mild, it appears
It bombards,
It bombards the wall
Between my tempo and mood
I don’t want to have the darkness
Around my body
When my mind
Can leave its skin
Within a wink of an eye.
The cobwebs inside my mind
Like fear
Increase
If they are not untangled
With the feelings
Of ease
And
Of melodies.
From the melodies,
One can find a tune
The tune
That binds
The hearts of those
Who cycle through the veins of life
Cycle through the spark of failures.
08.06.2023
III. Agony
I am born in the month of agony
As peace has not dared to appear;
From sunbeams to sunlight,
Shapes and intensity
Change,
The toddler learns to run with words;
Here, I, the agonized, disorganized soul
Do not know how to crawl.
All the butterflies spread their wings
Around the tip of a bud
Encouraging it to grow,
Hope,
The world acts like this
And makes a constellation
Of lost souls.
March, 2023
IV.
She cries and cries
As if she is destined
To bear the weight
Of the cracking sky,
She never imagines
That her teardrops
Can paint the white rose
Into blue
That she drew
In her notebook.
7th April
Fragment 3
The Blabber
Side face of a blabber
2019
The Blabber
Part 1
If something wonderful happens in my life, what will I do?
The best thing may arise in me.
My instinct or my strong belief in miracle can bring miracle to me.
People say that life is a box of miracles.
Life happens when nothing is happening.
Who will open the lid of the box of my life?
Waiting is the foe of creative energies,
I believe.
Restlessness creates the symphony
That takes refuge in me.
Blabber is one who speaks a lot but can do nothing.
I am that blabber.
Blabber is one who lives in the bubble.
Bubble of misconception, bubble of doubt.
I am that blabber.
I am such a blabber that I fail at everything.
I want to be a doer.
From being a dear to a deer, one goes through a journey.
Part 2
I write to free myself from the clutches of thoughts.
My body acts like a vessel and I am the sailor of the sea.
My vehicle is not so big like my body.
Its frailness makes me ponder over my rowing skills.
The canoe like body faces hurdles to go forward.
I want to be free like water.
As free as the birds.
The boxes around my existence enable me to think
That I have to take a shape
Of a cube, round, square
Or of any geometric figures.
Water is shapeless
So does the wind.
Sky is shapeless so does the earth.
The oxymoronic sensation is my breath
That acts like a fuel to the machines of my body.
Oil makes the machine run properly.
Every evening, the horizon paints the scenic beauty
That does not demand any mechanical or technological recording.
My eyes see the eyes of the firmament.
At night, it is the evil but the day comes with the prediction.
A hope,
A dawn.
14.04.2023
The moods of Future
The future is a giant ball. A mystery starts with the anonymous suspects and ends with the prominent names. The more you try to look at the future, the more it will get away from you. It is like sand slipping away from your fingers. It only makes you realize what you can hold on and that is present. Today, the first day of the Bengali calendar says what can happen in the near future. Possibility and probability are not same with certainty. Certainty gives you the feeling of ending. As long as a soul can float, he is happy.
Happiness gives you wings. It makes you venture into the lands that you have never thought of. The blankness in the eyes of a kid does not hypnotize an adult. But, the same blankness garnished with wonder can make anyone feel lost if anyone peeps into it.
Eyes are like ocean, I always say.
From yellowish blue to bluish brown, the colour paints the layers of the sky. They symbolize the different moods. The cinematographer plays with the colours, technicality of the cameras, and the camera decides which mood (circular or horizontal) it should concentrate on. The process of contemplation evokes out the psychology of the scene, the inner spectrum of the human beings.
The wise man can quickly advise on the significance of the minutes. Seconds are better than minutes. The tourists wait in the Tiger Hill to witness the rising of the sun, the advent of a new dawn. They wait with their cameras but within a blink, they can miss the metaphorical birth of the sun. This is the power of the seconds. The future is exactly like this one. It follows the laws of nature. And miraculously, the nature is the creative offspring of God. This nature stores the gems under its soil. It lets her rivers flow. It is also like mood. Very uncertain yet so adventurous just like life.
Youth is life; life is youth. How long can youth stay? Youth is the bohemian river, a wild horse. After youth, comes the mid age. The age of grey hair. White means wisdom. Wisdom means a step closer to death. And everyone will meet the future. The future comes with a hazy mood.
Youth
2019
Life is synomous with youth. Youth can be existent, omnipresent if one only thinks of present. Destiny is like a flame. Moths are like the pedestrians. Flame attracts the moths. Some die; some make a life of illusions.
15.04.2023
Prayer and Prayer
Folding the hands and looking upwards are the ways to alert the God. You become silent; you become calm. You have words but you throw words at the wall. There is no receiver except God. The tantrums of the world, the gullibility of the human existence, the love for the breathing- all sterilize our thinking capacity.
The act of thinking makes the hair grey.
Hair falls down onto the ground.
The empty baldness starts appearing.
Still, you pursue conversation with God.
Your sweaty body starts getting melted due to agony and excitement.
Uncertainty aligns with belief and belief is a force.
A force
Indomitable.
15th April, 23
Fragment 4
Face of Durga
2021
The (000) of my life
I don’t know the meaning of (000). But, I am sure what may be the possibilities of (000) in my life. People say that life is existence. I believe that life is doing. Journey means going from one place to another, moving from one space to another. Moving signifies that you are doing. You are doing for the mind; you are doing for the body; you are doing the deeds. Does (000) refer to a circle? Is it a line? Does a straight line hit itself back-to-back until it gets transformed into a round shape? Line has an end. Circle has no exit. Line has an exit. Circle has no end. I am Srijani. I am happily stuck to the ground of (000). I am running, growing like the leaves of a plant. A seed in a soil.
The beauty of livelihood is such that it makes one pause for a moment. One thinks and thinks until his eyes feel the burden of sleep.
Mahalaya, 2023
Fragment 5
I see you-
The people,
I see myself there,
Just there.
From here,
To here
Navigating, slowly, silently like a
Super sleuth or a cautious frog
I am going
I am traversing.
I am visualizing images
Like a heap of moments
So transitory
So illuminating
Ephemeral like wind
Like a second.
It evaporates,
It evokes out the smell of
Loveliness
Loveliness of the face
That is standing in the dark,
The eyes as dark as caves
Dark as the veiled sky,
I am standing in the mid centre of stage
Called life.
How ironical it appears!
I am cycling through the words
Some want to become the dusk
And I want to become a dawn.
Tears blow like wind
Only to make a bridge
Between you and me
Me- the mind
And you-
The people, the receiver
And the audience.
17.11.2023
Fragment 6
Two years have passed.
I forget to read the notes.
There is a coin in the notes.
The coin that I place on my palm
Only to listen to its subtle sound
Is a boon to anyone’s miserable days.
This sound is so silent
That the deaf intends to receive its noiseless words.
The womb as a grave nurtures life for nine months until it is finally exhumed as a chapter.
The earth consumes us all at sunset, when it finally closes the chapter of each life.
The way we came, is the same way we will all go.
Joseph C. Ogbonna is a widely published poet. Some of his works have been published online and in print. His poems and articles have been published by Spillwords Press, Double Speak, Written Tales, North of Oxford, Synchronized Chaos, Waxpoetry Magazine, Borderless Journal, Empower Magazine, PoetryXhunger, All Your Poems magazine, All Your Stories magazine and a few other literary sites and presses. His poems, ‘Napoleon to Josephine and Josephine to Napoleon,’ were aired by the BBC Radio 3 for the bicentenary of the death of Napoleon Bonaparte, in may, 2021. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria with his wife, Chizoba.
My rights have been explained to me and are fully understood. I wish to give my statement in Russian. I require neither counsel nor an interpreter. I am not registered with a psychiatrist or an addiction clinic, and I have never been prosecuted in Russia or anywhere else. I am unmarried, alert, and in reasonably good spirits, though none of that appears relevant. Born in 1995.
Regarding the allegations against me, I can state the following. It began about a year ago, when members of the public started calling and demanding that I provide them with legal advice free of charge. What follows has, with the investigator’s permission, been copied from my notebook and diary in order to preserve both the chronology and what remains of the narrative logic. I ask that it be treated as the only reliable account.
The phone is ringing again. Or perhaps it has been ringing continuously and I have only just noticed. Either way, someone has got through. This is the ninth call today, and it is barely one in the afternoon.
I would not mind so much if anyone paid me. I still have no idea why the public decided that my number belonged to the legal profession’s branch of the Red Cross, but the calls kept coming. I did not even try changing it. Whoever was posting my number would no doubt track down the new one with the persistence normally found in debt collectors and minor government agencies. All in all, the phenomenon supplied me with two months’ worth of extraordinarily varied practice: divorces prompted by threats from mistresses, complications arising from the construction of a morgue, and everything in between.
My usual office was a compartment on the second-to-last commuter train out of Moscow. During the short journey I could dispense advice to seven, sometimes ten, questioning “souls.” Having opened a travelling franchise of goodness and justice in the rear carriage, I guided my uninvited clients into the previously undiscovered world of statutes, deadlines, and official fees. That was when I began writing down every request and everything I did afterward. Organising one’s practice is not merely satisfying. It may later prove useful during questioning.
I did not know these people, yet I felt responsible for them. Responsibility is difficult to avoid when someone addresses you as though you alone are the court of final appeal, a Roman praetor, and the last trumpet of justice rolled into one. There is a catch, of course: it is difficult to be the last trumpet of justice when you have only the faintest idea where you yourself are going.
There was, in fact, an obscure sense of obligation behind the whole affair, which is probably where I should have started. It was never clear who owed whom more: the callers, or me. Sometimes the voices demanded advice as if I had borrowed a large sum of money from them and could repay it only through this peculiar setoff. At other times their apologetic tone made me feel as though I were speaking to the debtor. When the train reached my station, my office hours ended.
That evening a special taxi was waiting for me. Its number plate read NOT 666.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve that plate,” the driver began. “People keep cancelling. Makes it impossible to work.”
“Why? It says not 666,” I replied with a small smile.
The driver laughed.
“Exactly. And I take priests to morning service. I only picked you up because I thought a man might freeze standing out here at night.”
“Where are you headed after this?”
“Vnukovo Airport.” After a moment he added, “Now those people will have a real dilemma: cancel because of the number, or miss their flight.”
“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “A dilemma.”
The symbolism was, frankly, vulgar. A taxi promising not to take you to hell; disembodied voices calling to ask about justice. Even then I felt the whole story reeked of cheap paperback mysticism. I am getting ahead of myself, but cheap paperback mysticism was exactly what it turned out to be.
Determined to understand the strange sense of debt that came with the calls, I began prodding at it. Trial and error established one thing: the debt was not financial. It became most acute just before sleep, when I had not yet fallen into dreams and was sliding along the edge of consciousness. The debt, or perhaps the credit, appeared to me as a dark marble sphere threaded with white veins. It may not have been entirely marble. It may not have been marble at all. That is not important.
What mattered was that this marvel of metaphysical thought hung directly above me, held back by nothing I could see from falling onto my already unfortunate head. Naively assuming that anything in the world could be paid off, I settled every debt I had. The stony chill above my scalp did not retreat. A desperate turn to charity achieved nothing either.
And then I was hired.
Well, not exactly hired. That would be inaccurate, and calling it a job would be generous. What happened was this: I stepped out of my flat one morning and found an envelope under the door, addressed to me by the Federal Public-Private Office of Celestial Administration and Associated Afterlife Matters, hereinafter “the Celestial Bureau.”
The level of vulgar mysticism, already exhausting, continued to rise. All that remained was for me to walk into a strange fog and emerge somewhere in the Moscow Region in the 1930s. I could then explain the virtues of a fair and honest trial to a three-man tribunal, which would presumably sentence me to death for obstructing the administration of justice.
Back in our own reality, the envelope contained an employment contract bearing my signature and a congratulatory letter from “the best company in the world.” It promised a “competitive salary,” praised my “invaluable contribution to the proper development of society,” and thanked me warmly for agreeing to become Junior Assistant to the Senior Specialist of the Legal Department.
The fact that complete strangers possessed my signature did not especially surprise me. Nor did their knowledge of my name and address. What baffled me was the method of fraud. They could have taken out a loan in my name or forged a power of attorney. Instead, they had chosen to stage some elaborate nonsense involving an employment contract and a welcome letter.
After some thought, I decided to visit the address. They were clearly not planning to beat me up; it would have been far easier to wait for me somewhere along my already known route. Besides, jobs for lawyers – especially jobs so determined to hire one – are not always easy to find.
At the address stood a vast Soviet building in a particularly heavy strain of Brutalism, a place where no human foot seemed to have ventured in years. I walked around the hulk, tried several locked doors, and eventually found a staircase leading down to the basement. Beside it was a brass plaque engraved with the words FEDERAL PUBLIC-PRIVATE OFFICE OF CELESTIAL ADMINISTRATION AND ASSOCIATED AFTERLIFE MATTERS: THE CELESTIAL BUREAU.
I descended the steps and squeezed through an unlocked door that appeared to be barricaded from the inside by something heavy. The interior suited the building: an old Soviet office with narrow corridors and plank floors. The letter instructed me to attend a “welcome interview” in Room 3.
Inside, a fat man in a grey jacket was waiting for me. On his lapel was a badge showing a quill from which a long wing had sprouted. His face seemed fixed in a state of permanent dissatisfaction, as though I had interrupted important work and had also had the poor taste to arrive with a stupid question.
“Mikhail,” the man said by way of introduction. “Were there calls?”
“There were calls. Anton.”
“A pleasure.” Mikhail held out his hand. “The letter?”
“The letter. A pleasure.”
“With the contract?”
“With the contract.”
At this point, an idiotic idea took root in my mind.
“Passport,” he said.
“Passport,” I repeated.
The man sprang up and slammed both hands onto the desk, although given his weight it looked less like a blow than an abrupt lowering of the arms.
“No jokes in here. We’re a fucking serious institution with centuries of history, powerful market positioning, and a corporate culture.”
I tried to explain myself, but apparently the outburst had merely been his chosen prelude to orientation.
“You think I do this for fun? First I have to find you, then I spend half the day in this miserable office asking you these questions?” His voice shifted into command. “Listen carefully. We follow the Stanislavski method here: whatever you give me, I give back with full conviction. So far, all I’m getting from you is aggravation. Once I’ve accumulated enough, I’ll start returning it. Questions?”
“Yes. What is this almshouse, exactly?”
“You’re the almshouse. This company existed before anyone had even considered producing you. Granted, we only acquired formal legal status and state funding under the tsar, but that in no way diminishes our proud standing or our great mission. The various suffixes came later, depending on the historical period.”
“And what is the mission of this enterprise?”
“We help people who have left this world put their affairs in order. Mostly documents. We correct inaccuracies…”
“Restore justice?”
“Justice should not concern you too deeply. Your job, as a junior assistant, is to receive an assignment and complete it properly, and above all by the deadline set by management. Don’t even think about screwing up, dodging the work, or simply ignoring it. With our connections, I can load your name with so many morally questionable transactions that you’ll lose your fucking mind. And it won’t stop at a dildo delivered without discreet packaging, if you understand me. That’s all for today. You start tomorrow.”
It would have been foolish to assume that tomorrow might fail to arrive. On the way home, answering calls, I found myself accepting everything on some automatic level. Yes, organisations sometimes hired people by strange means. Yes, I had been given a vague account of a great mission and an ancient history. The same could be said of almost any enterprise.
That night the sphere was waiting for me as usual. In the hope of reaching the kingdom of Morpheus more quickly, I imagined rolling it down a bowling lane, scattering stacks of paper covered in complicated legal terminology.
The Bureau’s daily schedule was an incontrovertible force, apparently designed to waste employee time in the strangest way possible. It began with a stand-up meeting, halfway through which I barely managed to arrive. For some reason, the meeting had started before the working day.
Squeezing into a room with a round table, I appeared to have entered in the middle of a monologue by a large and angry executive.
“That is why you must exercise the greatest caution when alternating rapidly between carrot and stick. Subject a person to too much of that and the mind may shift right out of place. You there.” Like a heroic worker on a propaganda poster, he thrust an open palm in my direction. “Do you have the faintest idea what we do here?”
At that moment it became clear that I could not produce a meaningful answer on my own. Mikhail, seated to the chief’s right, came to my rescue. Yesterday’s phrase surfaced in my mind.
“We help people put their affairs in ord-“
“What affairs?” The chief brought his outstretched hand crashing down on the table as though cleaving an invisible enemy. “The fucking genius who invented that piece of shit ought to be put on the first flight straight to hell.”
He paused, exhaled heavily, and continued in a calmer voice.
“Once again, for those who have plumbed the deepest depths of our positioning, and for those who have yet to plumb them, I repeat. As the classics observed, the trouble is not that man is mortal. The trouble is that he is suddenly mortal. And when he suddenly goes and gets himself dead, he leaves behind an unfinished matter. Sometimes two.
“Since we are simultaneously a private company, a state corporation, and at times a fucking travelling circus, we answer to owners who are shareholders, legislators, and spectators all at once. It is in their interest that every unfinished matter left by the departed should reach its proper conclusion.
“Document Control.” He leaned forward and turned to his left. “That conclusion must be reached competently. Not like your last performance with the national property register, when you couldn’t tell a house from a shed.
“For the hundredth time today: the state’s overriding interest is the stability of civil commerce. No confusion in ownership, transactions, or obligations.” He leaned to his right, toward Mikhail, and raised his voice. “Can the Legal Department hear me over there, with all its legal entities and articles of law?”
“We hear you,” the Legal Department replied gloomily.
“The corporate rats, meanwhile, do not want shares, ownership interests, corporate rights, and all the rest of that rubbish passing unexpectedly from hand to hand. As happened in…” He stopped as if he had nearly said something indecent over lunch, then rose from the table. “Well. You all know the case.”
An awkward silence settled over the room. The chief looked down on everyone, smiled, and declared, “Onward with a song, ladies, gentlemen, and comrades. Let us lead our branch to decisive victory in the international arena. You are dismissed.”
Mikhail seized me by the arm and whirled me in a waltz through the corridors, hissing in imitation of the chief.
“Can the Legal Department hear me? Can the Legal Department hear me? We hear you! With hours like these, you’d confuse your taxpayer number with your corporate registration code, never mind your prick with the handle on a tram.”
“What is our interest in the circus?” I thought it prudent to change the subject.
“Where?”
“The state makes sense, and so do the corporations. I mean the part where we’re a travelling circus and there are spectators. What does that mean?”
“That part is relatively simple. As you’ve probably gathered, we have three classes of client. The first send us routine, standard assignments in ordinary envelopes through the Russian postal service. They’re forever late with payment, but that is Accounting’s problem. The second send unusual, complicated assignments in pleasant-smelling document envelopes from foreign courier companies, and they pay in advance.”
“And the third come here themselves?”
“Come here themselves? What the fuck are you talking about?” His voice rose. “Communication is strictly one-way. Our commitment to customer service is second to none. The third group has no consistent system of delivery or payment at all. We used to send their cases back. Then we started throwing them away. Then international agreements reclassified the entire category as petitions from members of the public, and now we’re legally required to consider every one within thirty days. That will be your area of responsibility.”
I needed time to digest what I had heard and seen, but the volume of information had done nothing to reduce my number of questions. Meanwhile, we passed various offices and utility rooms and arrived at a substantial black door. Behind it lay a room renovated with obvious care.
Everything about it suggested an entirely ordinary modern office. Most surfaces were white or grey, which soon began to tire the eyes. The wooden desks helped. Each held standard office equipment: an all-in-one computer, a printer, a keyboard, and a mouse. Beside them stood neat stacks of folders and stationery.
Full-length mirrors faced the workstations, making both the department and its staff appear far larger than they really were. There was some subtle allusion here. Perhaps one was expected to work for two; perhaps the mirrors represented the spacious horizons of unfettered thought. My own thoughts, still recovering from the meeting, had no desire to take flight, and I quickly lost the sacred meaning.
In answer to my unspoken question about why the Legal Department looked so different from the rest of the Bureau, Mikhail explained that some contracts, no matter how ingeniously one manipulated statutes, penalties, liquidated damages, and the allocation of funds, still left behind a few crumbs within the limits of mathematical error. In theory, those crumbs could be spent on a great many good deeds.
A call on the internal line prevented him from finishing. I had little difficulty guessing that, in the right department and among the right people, theory aligned with practice exactly as it was supposed to.
At my desk I noticed one difference from the others. Beside my monitor lay a single lonely folder, too thin even to boast of containing many pages. Mikhail, already retreating deeper into the office, tore himself away from the phone long enough to explain, briefly but colourfully, that I was not to touch or distract the other employees. My assignment consisted solely of whatever lay on the desk. Once it was finished, I could stamp it and go home.
For the record, I will list the documents contained in the folder.
The passport of a man born around 1965; I do not remember the exact year. The photograph showed the face of someone just beginning his advance into that respectable, almost caricaturally glorious condition known as old age.
The passport of a woman born around 1990, again approximately. One detail stood out: both passports bore marriage stamps dated the same day, but the woman had kept her own surname.
This poem is an Uzbek nazira (a creative poetic response and homage) to the famous patriotic masterpiece “O‘zbekiston” by the Hero of Uzbekistan and People’s Poet, Abdulla Oripov. Written in traditional stanzas, the work connects Uzbekistan’s rich historical legacy—referencing luminaries such as Avicenna (Ibn Sino), Al-Biruni, Tamerlane (Amir Temur), Imam Bukhari, and Mahmud al-Zamakhshari—with modern reflections on identity, national pride, and peace. The English translation preserves the stanza structure, rhythm, and classical imagery while ensuring cultural nuances remain accessible to an international readership.
UZBEKISTAN
(A Nazira to Abdulla Oripov’s poem “Uzbekistan”)
I wrote a ballad all about love, I sang a song of passion true. Yet, since I tasted no stranger’s bread, I had not shown my love for you. Today I write of you, my Homeland, Perhaps no heavier verse is known. When soul parts from the dying body, Mother Earth claims us as her own. Yet feeble is this pen of mine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. With tulips blooming in her embrace, A land of gardens, vast and bright. Where golden sun shines soft as silk, My Uzbekistan sheds its light. A sacred garden, pure and fine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Along your borders stand your braves, Guardians of your sacred soil. If I but touch a branch by chance, The trees bestow their fruitful spoil. My mother nation, soul of mine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine.
A cradle holds a child so calm, Lulled by a soft and tender strain. No traitor springs from such a cradle, No room for war on this domain. The world became a garden fine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. How graceful are the Uzbek maidens, Dreaming as Zulfiya once dreamed. A modest maiden’s noble mother Is virtue’s spark, so pure, esteemed. You are my honor, pride divine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Cross over the bridge if you give cheer, The clear streams ripple in Qarshi’s light. And should you visit in Ramadan, The crescent smiles upon the night. Rich with gold, a precious mine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Mahmud of Khwarazm brought such pride, “Jarullah” was his Mecca name. When such great souls have walked this land, God blessed this home with holy fame. My ancient roots, a sacred sign, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Ibn Sina held the soil dear, Gathering herbs across the land. This healer born in Afshona Healed four continents by his hand. I claim today, he is part of mine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Amir Temur cast swift justice On traitors who would sell their birth. Beruni’s knowledge lit the West, And lifted men above the Earth. I hold a grievance in Columbus’ time, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine.
The proudest soul of Muslim faith, Whose heart knows true humility, Imam Bukhari penned Hadiths In the Prophet’s own purity. Faith’s joy is what I hold divine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine. Call them proud if you so choose, The souls of Turon earn their praise. Follow the ancestors, descendants, And rise to great and holy ways. My freedom, pride, and praise divine, Uzbekistan, true Homeland of mine.
Ishq haqida yozdim ballada, Muhabbat haqida kuyladim qoʻshiq. Musofir nonidan totmaganim-chun, Oʻz yurtimga boʻlmapman oshiq. Bugun seni yozyapman Vatan, Balki boʻlmas bundan ogʻir she’r. Jondan ayro qolganida tan, Oʻz bagʻringga olding Ona Yer. Faqat ojiz qalamim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Quchogʻida lolalar ochgan, Gulistonim bor mening. Quyosh zarrin ipak sochgan, Oʻzbekistonim bor mening. Nomi qutlugʻ gulshanim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatananim manim. Chegarangda paxlavonlaring, Qoʻriqlaydi tuprogʻing orin. Tasodifan bir tegib ketsam, Daraxtlaring toʻkadi borin. Ona xalqim, jon-tanim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim.
Alla eshitadi bolang beshikda, Bunday bola bo
ʻlmas yurtpurush. Boqsahamki yovlar teshikdan Bu Vatanda bo
ʻlmaydi urush.
Dunyo bo ʻldi chamanim manim, O ʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Nozanindir o
ʻzbek qizlari, Zulfiyaning hayolin surar. Hayosini saqlagan qizning, Onalari asli mastura. Sensan nomus va shanim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Rag ʻbat bersang ko
ʻprikdan kelib, Mavjlanadi Qarshingda zilol. Ramazonda buyursang tashrif, Oqshomlari jilmayar hilol. Tuprog ʻi zar, ma’danim manim, O ʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Xorazmning faxri Mahmudga, Makka ahli dedi Jarulloh. Shunday bashar o ʻtgan bo ʻlsa bil. Yurtga nazar solibdi Alloh. Olis tarix qadamim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Ibn Sino tuproq ardoqlab, Giyohlar-u nabodat terdi. Afshonadan chiqqan bu tabib, To ʻrt qit’aga tabobat berdi. Aytgum, bu kun, u manim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim. Vatan sotar xoyinpurushni Amir Temur tortdi jazoga Beruniyning tahsilin olib, Gʻarb millati uchdi fazoga. Kolumpda bir alamim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim.
Musulmonning ulugʻ magʻruri Xushu boʻlmoq asli dilida Hadis yozdi Imom Buxoriy Soʻnggi Paygʻambarning tilida. Iymon zavqin tuyganim manim Oʻzbekistin Vatanim manim. Kiborli deb oʻylang mayli Turon ahli tahsinga loyiq. Ajdodlarga ergashing avlod, Siz ham boʻling buyuk mashoyiq. Erkim, faxrim va madhim manim, Oʻzbekiston Vatanim manim.
(c) Rushana Shomurodova
CONTEXTUAL & CULTURAL NOTES Nazira: A classical Eastern poetic genre where a poet composes an artistic response/homage to a celebrated masterpiece, matching its rhyme scheme or thematic tone. Abdulla Oripov (1941–2016):** Hero of Uzbekistan, National Poet, and author of the Uzbek National Anthem. His poem “O‘zbekiston” is one of the most iconic works of modern Uzbek literature.
Zulfiya (1915–1996): A prominent Uzbek poetess and cultural icon who symbolizes fidelity, grace, and feminine poetic tradition. Qarshi: Capital city of the Qashqadaryo region in southern Uzbekistan, historically known for its iconic 16th-century vaulted bridge over the Qashqadaryo River.
Jarullah: An honorific title meaning “The Neighbor of God,” granted by Mecca scholars to the great Khwarazmian scholar Mahmud al-Zamakhshari (1075–1144) for his monumental linguistic work on the Quran. Ibn Sino (Avicenna, 980–1037): Universal scholar born near Bukhara in Afshona, recognized worldwide as one of the most influential founding fathers of modern medicine. Beruni (Al-Biruni, 973–1048):** Polymath who calculated the Earth’s radius with remarkable precision and predicted the existence of an inhabited landmass across the ocean long before Columbus. Amir Temur (Tamerlane, 1336–1405): Renowned ruler, military strategist, and founder of the Timurid Empire headquartered in Samarkand. Imam Bukhari (810–870): Islamic scholar born in Bukhara, compiler of Sahih al-Bukhari, the most authentic collection of Hadith in Sunni Islam. Turon: Historical term for the ancient Central Asian region encompassing modern Uzbekistan.
AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY
Rushana Shomurodova is an Uzbek poet, medical scholar, and writer based in Uzbekistan. She pursues her medical degree at Turon University while actively contributing to modern Uzbek literature through bilingual poetry and lyrical works. Her poetry frequently explores themes of national identity, historical legacy, spiritual devotion, devotion, and youth perspectives. She writes in both Uzbek and English.
