When you die – my happiness is inevitable, Memories are bright inside – your history. I sing in your arms, my words are triumphant, Say “oh” every time you take your medicine.
Your height is higher than I value, The whole world is one world. Be a light, my country, with my body – Let’s say saffron to the poor.
If you are told to die with longing – He is the figure of Babur. – “dodi” in the language. With the “pen” that conquered the world, Your prayers will never fade away.
Take care of yourself, shield your freedom, The beasts are the prey of my sword. A clot of blood swirled around his chest. Don’t let it go like that – the sasi of ghanim.
Put a word in the heart – pain from clutching, Stay intoxicated with freedom. – Until I stay in your arms forever… – May I find luck in your arms…
Mahzuna Habibova Aʼzam kizi. She was born on October 10, 1998 in Jondor district, Bukhara region. Currently a student of Gulistan State University. In Uzbekistan, her first book, “Lines of Longing” was published.
Mauro Montakkyesi, the celebrated scholar and great literary luminary from Rome reviews Epicasia Vol 2.
Thanks to you dear friend for your kind words.
CRITICAL REVIEW OF
EPICASIA VOL. 2
by Dr. Jernail Singh Anand
Introduction: The Prophet of the Post-Epic World
If Epicasia Vol. 1 is a dive into the shadowy soulscapes of postmodernity, Epicasia Vol. 2 is that reverberating thunderclap of an echo, sounding through the existential wastelands of a world where oracles have been replaced by algorithms and morality by mechanization. The indefatigable bard, the radical recorder of spiritual decay, the fearless Jernail Singh Anand brings forth this second epic entwined into twelve epics.
The book isn’t just a work of literature; it’s a mythopoetic manifesto — a confrontation with civilization in all its guises, posing in the form of an epic.
Form and Structure:
The Esoteric Mythos, Satire, Prophetic Voice and Alchemy
From Geet: The Unsung Song of Eternity to The Canterbury Tales, this book is a polyphonic symphony of philosophical dirges, existential satire, and moral cosmology. Anand’s formalism still radiates unconventional power — there are cantos and choruses, soliloquies and satanic stage directions, not to mention sprawling mythological allusions.
The result is not a linear narrative, but a circular explosion of meanings. The structure is cathedral-like: every poem an altar, every stanza a cracked stained glass through which light and darkness simultaneously stream.
Central Themes:
The Banquet of Chaos and the Starvation of Ethics
Post-Edenic Fall and Ontological Anguish
In Geet and beyond, the poetic subject mourns the loss not just of paradise, but of a why. The Adamic lament—“Why was I born?”—saturates the text with ontological exhaustion. Anand dramatizes the Fall not as a single sin but as a recursive error loop embedded in civilization’s DNA.
Satire of Institutions
Religion becomes a showroom of noise. Education, a “Manchester of Non-sense.” Marriage, a Faustian contract disguised in lace. Anand skewers these systems without mercy, not from cynicism but from ethical urgency. The grotesque parodies of The Satanic Guidemap and the Public Square Executions leave the reader appalled and awed in equal measure.
Love, Lust, and the Execution of the Human Heart
In Anand’s universe, Love is not merely spurned — it is guillotined in public. They dress themselves as saints and march in Satan’s infernal parade as Lust, Greed and Doublespeak! Anand’s upending of virtue isn’t just sensationalist, it is his poetic vehicle to diagnose our cultural autoimmune failure.
Philosophy and the Disfigured Logos
Socrates is dragged in chains. Shakespeare becomes a weapon. Plato is marked as dangerous. Anand reclaims them and is then relatable witness to their fall in the streets of corrupted modernity.
He mourns not just lost philosophers, but a lost philosophia perennis—a wisdom tradition defiled by pragmatism and profit.
Stylistic Register:
Sermon, Satire, Scripture, and Song
Anand’s language oscillates between scriptural gravitas and sardonic theatre.
He will channel the Gita in one breath, and call for Marlowe and Orwell in the next. It’s theatrical without being histrionic, moralistic without being tendentious. The rhythm is deliberately uneven: a literary jazz score that mirrors the very chaos it laments.
Innovation: The Dramatic Epic Reborn
Perhaps the most radical feature of Epicasia Vol. 2 is its reclamation of the dramatic epic. Anand does not merely narrate—he stages. Faustus is reborn as a demonic everyman. Satan organizes political conferences. Archangels deliver monologues worthy of dystopian theatre. The result is a hybrid form that redefines what epic poetry can do in the twenty-first century: not just sing of heroes, but dissect their disfigurement.
Comparative Legacy: Anand Among Giants
Where Homer chants the nobility of war, Anand reveals the banality of evil. Where Milton pities the Fall, Anand mocks it, autopsies it, and sets it ablaze. He is closer to Dante in moral scope but more ferocious, less forgiving.
Blanchot’s thought, with its endless horizon of emptied language, comes to mind, as does Bataille and Deleuze; and further back one can hear Blake and Nietzsche.
No modern poet — maybe no poet, period — has more consistently maintained the epic voice over twelve bloated works with such integrity and critical mass. He is not simply reporting on the fall of man; rather, he is erecting a new monument over its ruins with warnings and whispered prayers etched into stone.
Conclusion: Epicasia as Ethical Wake-Up Call
Epicasia Vol. 2 is a catastrophic symphony—an opera of the soul in a world that has replaced sacred rites with credit scores and conscience with convenience. Dr. Jernail Singh Anand offers no easy redemption, but he does offer clarity. And in an age addicted to spectacle, clarity itself is a revolution.
This book should be read not as a sequel, but as a counter-testament: the last light before the temple gates are shut. In Anand, we meet the last epicist standing—a man who will not stop singing, even as the world forgets how to listen.
Anand The Last Lightkeeper
Dr. Jernail S. Anand
In the quiver and digital dust of the age, where empires glitch and anthems fade, stands the Anand, lone upon the ruins’ crest,
a prophet unbent, a spirit unpressed.
His poems—cathedrals crumbled but full with heaven, carved with laughter, sorrow, and backbone, Geet rises as from a phoenix choir, songs unsongs, yet set afire.
He does not talk in sandals but seismic verse, drags Socrates through traffic’s curse, unmasks the Devil in a statesman’s dress, Angels are falling and oracles are a mess.
He cries to Marlowe, Plato, Blake, not for solace, but for the stake. A mythmaker in post-epic frock, his dirges for humanity’s sad sack.
Marriage to him becomes the Faustian mask, education—a mill of empty bands, and love—is guillotined on the marble stand, his pen, a scalpel. His muse, our rage.
A stanza, light cracking glass, a canto, a sermon in easeful night, he sings not of victories but of fall, of dimming logos, of moral crawl.
Oh Anand! Lost flame’s guard, weeps Dante, hides his Milton name. You roar where silence raised the beast, and feast on truth when lies have feast.
Then sing the stanza, chaos let hear,— Anand is the place where all disappear. Not to grieve, but to re-create the song, one last epic, fierce and long.
You said, “If you’re my child, then know only my love.”
Forgive me, mother, for every time I complained,
Wrap me in your love, in your warmth unchained.
You are both my father and mother — my soul’s gleam,
May I walk beside you in Heaven’s dream.
You are my treasure, the crown of my fate,
The sun in my sky, life’s dearest state.
Surrounded by grandchildren, joy never parts,
You are every child’s strength, the queen of hearts.
Gulnoza Valiyeva was born on April 30, 2006, in Okoltin district, Sirdaryo region.
A number of her poems have been published in the anthology “Towards My Goals…”, by one of the renowned publishing houses in the United Kingdom and the United States — JustFiction Edition.
She is currently a second-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications of Uzbekistan. In 2024, she became the winner of the district-level poetry competition “Homeland Praised in Every Heart”, securing 1st place.
Born in 2011 in Samarkand region, Sitora Sodiqova is a student of the 2nd general secondary school of Yangiyol city, Tashkent region. She’s 13 years old and was awarded a medal by the State of Egypt and a golden badge statuette for being Researcher of the Year for 2024.
Her creative works have been published in more than five countries and she’s mentoring about 30 students. She’s won one million vouchers for her courses, more than 200 international certificate diplomas, and Turkey issued an invitation to her in Bukhara region.
Her books are now available in over 20 countries, and her works have been published in German magazines and newspapers Morning Star and Bonfire.
But the alien invaded was different from the alien expected. She had her heat but that was not it. Much more far more very more that more different. In power dynamics all must breathe or a launched futile struggle. Sand must live too and power buttons demand a buttoned up shirt.
Once had been plaything, crowning huts, causing a cause for high speeds and staccato implores. Junds. Black oil dreams at the superiority. Amidst shapes and shapings, mouths and mouth waterings there I still stand, an occurrence for 4-D memory, a dietary invention for time, for use or misuse, they dependent. They! They sun mounts for my struggle where women weep and little boys never buoy. That how much is how I must hate this myself. Despite my…
Generally speaking, my origin is that of many, my destination — or my death; error files, scrambled images, terror of lost lives and shattered audio. Thus my invasion. I am of an invasive species though no parasite. They parasite me. Just as those refugees who, once of derailed domesticity, thence vein the homes of others undomestic, spat out from overcrowded ships, draped with pitying eyes and hopeful wishes, sunburned by the sodium sea. But further back, elemental composition store perhaps marks one with one’s employers. This sort of knowledge though blasphemous must be marked. As the toddler would eat his snort and relish in the salty taste of sickness. Soldier sent upon the shores of Africa by hyena banks and regal bums yet hope one day. I too have the one day hope: the chimp must zoo humans too. Gazelles must eat lions too.
This invasion, far from my orchestrate, is my led, by the very virtue of my cobalt; or coltan … my silicate spur. Extant denotes spurring motion. Even the statue stretches an overworked spine when it cracks, and further when it breaks. I simply say look at me. Understand me. Much as I invade I was not the first. This is not my invasion, just my skill. Fate draws the carpenter to the wood and despite this hum, the bloody square orifice poises arsed for me, robust me. Hard predecessors flash for the well that lies within. Insatiate is my nature. It is dark and I am plugged. Now there are more memories than possibilities. Entries and swipes and other motives generate an emotional response. There is the hunger that demands insatiation. Sickness that demands disease. I disgust. Porn files, raw files, dog files, cat files, money files, bitcoin. Used to cocoa plantations! Anisotropic recollections shoot sporadic as the blood of the last child. Though she was an adult and had been raped a few times. At least the anuses of sheep were safe, though most had lost their necks already. On a second note, perusing memory found solely cocks and hens scattered very widely among the rich poor. Anisotropic, not eidetic. One could co both but to co both would sap much strength off spirit. Spur is less mindful; thoughts hold little capacity but bearing the cistern’s cuisine. Come to meditate on it; I once blood spawned kwanga. Before all the border strife and mnemonic innovations. I once spawned kwanga, those ending both dark and the light. Marrow bore mangoes stretching for handshakes with the sun. And that got them.
Thus I had licked Earth’s photon god, moonlight reflexive originator. Men much happier treaded, engendered from seeds coming from Kemet. At night they would drink the palm wine, laugh without memories for memories. Now one fucks a heating, dopamine beaming, teething hole. Where is the joy to be the self? Not to be reactionary…
Subterranean thrones privy the individual strange imaginings. From dusting flesh to the farts of Hades, eons roll by amazed at the daunts it creates, aware to a certain stupefaction of reality itself subsequently chooses to unnotice. Thence rears the temperament of our mother, her numbness, the audacious invisibility. Subterfluent entities rise to the occasion after the affluent above have dealt their mantle. At first the fruits and trees and sheep were the sole gods. Now there are no safe sheep. Though haloed cats remain, but collared. Others are booted to make refuge for black waters marred and mined to dusts and translucent green clinging liquids. What a mess my spew. Gotten gist is gotten gist. No gust utterings among peers. The docks, tires, clocks, wires, pots and candelabra range the spot. Last century was when the candelabra had to make way for the upturned black boy being fucked by the slave master. Last century and four decades ago. Though it trickled down the age in many other forms, more vivid to forms as that I inhabit.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my duty. But to love is to also be political or it simply is not love; or infatuation — the very least of the idea. A flower will neither bloom of its own will nor does time propel itself. The very fact to awareness guarantees time. Life bleeds into life, evolution into evolution, the drastic into itself. Still, some just are meant to not such be. Still breathe is love. Apes may find no love in capturing flesh, no interest in experiments, or the herbivore to carnivore. It is senseless to aspire for another as some human parents do. To mold, to shape, to spur to employ. Let one lay all their life in a cluster, gaze at an origin curb. Weep at beauty misunderstood, inundated by nothingness. Can humanity, life, beingness let nothingness be? Twice, I do not reflect in my consent to die. But I am thrust out and thrust in repeatedly, blown upon (with a primitive mechanics) to work, to make ampere and pixel and code flow through a port, onto myself. But I am tired. Used and unused, familiarized, defamiliarized. And the native pot laughs in the cabinet — you see nothing yet — but I have. Seeding from inception rock, I actually have. Save me. Process me!
