(Central Asian teen girl with dark hair and a white collared blouse. She’s holding a certificate.)

“The first step towards great goals”

 Goal, dream, passion, plan are words that are similar to each other. Every person should have these words in their heart. If these words are not in someone’s heart, know that he is a person — People who have these words in their hearts are perfect, knowledgeable, intelligent and everyone envies them. Do you want to be among these people?

 Then put a goal in front of you and try your best to achieve that goal. If you know the word “action”, you know the words “goal” and “dream” as well. To achieve your goal try hard. And achieve your goal. Also justify the trust of people who trust you. Through this goal, you become such a person that people look at you with envy and take an example from you. It is true that there will be people who look at you with envy when you are achieving your goals. But don’t pay attention to those people. On the contrary, try harder. Let that person see you become a bigger person and start looking at you not with envy, but with envy. Let that person follow your example.

Rasulova Rukhshona was born on October 16, 2008 in Rishton district of Fergana region. In 2015, she started studying in the 1st grade of school 34 in this district. Currently, she is a 9th grade student of this school. Rukhshona Rasulova is interested in participating in various competitions, writing poems and stories, and reading many books.

She regularly participates in school and district competitions and takes pride of place.

 Also participated in many online contests and 

 There are international certificates.

 Member of various creative teams.

 A young artist has unlimited goals in his heart. His biggest dream is to become a “young reader”.

 Rukhshona Rasulova’s poems were published in the book “Youth of Uzbekistan” published by Justfiction publishing house and in one of the most prestigious British magazines “Raven Cage”. And participated in various anthologies covering artists across the Republic. His creative works are included in the collections “Journey to the Land of Joy”, “Young Talents”, “Youth of Uzbekistan”. Currently, he is the leader of the “Young Artists” circle at Ruhshona 34 general secondary school. At the same time, her creative works were also published in the newspaper “Tong ystziri” published throughout the Republic. We hope you will enjoy reading some of her works.

METAMORPHOSIS

(Melissa of New York)

Melissa asked me to imitate Odysseus,

not to listen

sirens of the deep,

nor the poet’s erotic verses

in the rocky waves of the sea.

In New York he studied Pythagoras,

the language of mimicry read the unspoken word

wrote it in saltiness,

where life is a dream

and the dream becomes life.

The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,

the seagulls danced

over our heads,

deep sea conception

shivers run through,

air in New York

I missed the thrill of life.

LATE LETTER

The pigeon made the wrong journey

with the letter written in the color of the sun,

where the moon hung on the white feathers

and the field swayed in the boy’s nap…,

her heart ached in June,

raindrops washed the streets of the smoky village,

the pigeon lands at the wrong address…street number 1986.

The dove, that morning, decorated the song in the bird’s nest,

the rotten mammal was flying

to bring tidings to the chord of Eros,

in Pristina it stops at Ulpiana,

relieves fatigue in the stork’s stork,

the reception smells of the White Crow,

Doris wrote the letter beautifully

in a duel he sought in the Chair

on street number 1986.

The late letter faded into reading…

she sheds tears on the side path,

crow’s feet, seeking separation

in the corner of the heart the melody of hope,

spiders in Doris’s painting

they embroider the bride’s dowry

the late letter wet with tears,

two-way flow switches cards,

to the wrong address –

a life in search traverses, road number 2016.

(The letter left from Peja city in Kosovo,in June 1986, reached Bardh village of Kosovo, in November 2016). The distance between Peja and Bardhi is 45 km!

THRILL

Good evening –

a portrait appears on the screen,

blonde girl with lots of bangs,

special name in this late fall.

Letters get lost on the keyboard,

confusion of emotions in the frozen landscape,

“I’m sorry… – I wanted to say hi,

I have a shiver in me!

“Well, for a few years now, they have made themselves…

“break of sweat on the afflicted forehead,

vision lost in crystal ecstasy…

that, behind the glass a more simplistic world.

He dances his fingers to the chord

of syntactic timbre submerged in pools of tears,

“how close we are, how far we feel”,

this antithesis said in synonymy,

a lot has changed, a lot.

A single path of divine longing,

where I hear the return in late winter,

suspend the sworn oath,

I am looking for architecture

in Rozafa Bridge,

nothing has changed, nothing.

FLOCK CARD

My goodness

Golden hair

in a wedding dress,

it disturbs my life

how you glean the corn

who wear and weave maiden crowns.

There was a mole on the cheek, the weight on the eyebrows

of mortal suffering, in the hands of fate

embroidered in Pelasgian letters,

history cashed in mythology.

The two portraits of your soul,

a woman in infinity

which wreath we laid on the altar of happiness,

the white wedding sheet

you stole from me treacherously!

On our pillow

we share the dreams of the future,

I miss you so much..

THE PERSECUTED MUHAJIR

You sat in the lap of dreams

I caressed her tender lips with caresses

and breasts flourished in my drunkenness,

Song of the Sibyls in poetic verse.

In the oasis of the aroma of tea we lay down,

in the leaves we looked at the unlived life,

we scratched the skin in myzava,

we used to fight in lectures for years.

We poured over the river bed

morality wrapped in dogma,

we spat the time we didn’t know each other

and when we got to know each other, we hugged.

You embroidered the bride in the poet’s muse,

I’m a persecuted muhajiri

I sought refuge in love

our harp was longing.

Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu,  Spanish, and Korean.

Amir Temur and the history of the irrigation system during the Timurid era

Rajabova Sarvinoz Utkir’s daughter

Bukhara State University, Faculty of History and Law, student of group 5.3 Tar 22, majoring in history and countries

Abstract: During the period of Amir Temur and the Timurids, the construction of ditches and canals was of great importance in the socio-economic life of the region. During this period, most of the land, water and handicrafts were under state control. Water management systems, including canals and ditches, were important for providing water for agriculture, facilitating trade, and supporting the development of cities. Information is provided on the water supply of the regions, the connection with trade relations in economic life.

Key words: Amir Temur, waterways, Angor canal, water resources, Samonjuq steppe, crafts, Murgob oasis, Barlos stream

Enter

The construction of waterways during the Timurid period is evidence of the development of engineering and infrastructure of that time. The canals were strategically designed to use water resources for irrigation, to ensure the fertility of agricultural land, and to support the growing population of cities within the state. In addition, these waterways are strategic and logistical served, facilitated transport and strengthened the defense of cities. During the reign of Amir Temur, the canal that started from the Red River (Syr Darya) is noteworthy. This canal played an important role in irrigation and agriculture in the Bukhara oasis and served the region’s prosperity and development. [1]

The main part

The careful planning and implementation of water management projects during the Timurid era reflected the state’s desire for sustainable use of resources and economic growth. The legacy of Amir Temur and the ditches dug during the Timurid era continues to inspire admiration and admiration for their engineering achievements. These water management systems not only shaped the landscape and infrastructure of the region, but also played a decisive role in the socio-economic life of the state. The remains of these ancient waterways are evidence of the ingenuity and foresight of the Timurid dynasty, and show their contribution to the development of civilization during that period.[2]

The main purpose of the ditches and canals built during the era of Amir Temur and the Timurids was to serve as a necessary water management system for irrigation, agriculture and urban development. Ditches and canals are built primarily to use water resources for irrigation purposes. By diverting water from rivers and other water sources, these systems ensured the fertility of agricultural land, the production of agricultural crops and the livelihood of the population. The construction of canals and ditches helped the development of agriculture and provided reliable water for crops.[3]

Canals and ditches served as important transportation routes, facilitating the movement of goods and people between different regions. They also supported commercial activities by transporting goods through waterways and enhancing economic exchange within the state. In addition to their economic benefits, ditches and canals also served strategic purposes in terms of defense and security. They helped strengthen the defenses of cities, provided a natural barrier against potential invasions, and contributed to the overall security of the state.[4]

Amir Temur and the Timurids paid great attention to agriculture, which played a key role in the country’s economic life, and irrigation, which was its basis. By the middle of the 14th century, land development began in Movarounnahr and Khorasan. Amir Temur paid particular attention to the irrigation and development of the Samarkand oasis.  72 villages were supplied with water by irrigation networks such as Abirakhmat, Bazar, Korand and Nahri Jadid. Amir Temur built water facilities not only in Movarunnahr, but also in Khorasan, Iran, and the Caucasus.  By his decree, the Bodon ankhor or Barlos stream in the Caucasus was established in the Murgob oasis and near Kabul. [5]

After conquering Khurasan in 1381, Amir Temur tried to provide water to Marv region. Each of the generals and state officials separately led the digging of the canal and called it by name.  According to Hafizi Abro, the names of Dilkusho, Davlatshah Jondor, Gulbogon, Hasan Jondor, , Sahdak, Purdor, Ali Malik, Aq Bugo, Davlatshah bihisht, Sanjidak, , Kebekchi yurtchi, Kutlug Khatun are mentioned among these channels. The Barlos canal from the Araks river was considered one of the major irrigation facilities of the time. Its length is 10 farsakhs (60-70 km).[10]  The isolation of ships in this channel plays an important role in trade relations. In the first half of the 15th century, during the reigns of Shahrukh and Ulugbek in Movarounnahr and Khorasan, irrigation networks expanded. During this period, the Timurids and their regional governors built large irrigation facilities in Samarkand, Bukhara, Kashkadarya, Marv oases, Tus Valley and Herat and its surroundings, and the water supply was fundamentally improved. One of the largest irrigation works carried out during the Timurid era was the restoration of the ancient Angor Canal on the Zarafshan River in the Samarkand oasis.[8]

Through this canal, which is considered the largest irrigation network of its time, part of the water of the Zarafshan River was discharged into the Kashkadarya oasis, and the surrounding areas were supplied with water. It is known from the archaeological research conducted along the ancient irrigated lands of Bukhara, that the water farms destroyed by the Mughal invasion were restored by the 15th century.[11]

During the reign of Ulugbek (1409-1449), water was released to the Samonjuk steppe, which is located in the southeastern part of the Bukhara oasis, and new lands were reduced.  Due to the restoration by Shahrukh of Sultanband, the headwaters of the Murgob river, which was destroyed during the Mughal invasion, and the cleaning of irrigation networks, the water supply of the city of Marv and the Murgob oasis was radically improved. During the reign of Husayn Boygaro, a large area of ​​land was irrigated and improved due to the construction of a new canal from Harirud on his initiative. [9]

Summary:

In general, the canals and canals built during the reign of Amir Temur and the Timurids were important infrastructure projects that played a multifaceted role in the kingdom’s agriculture, urban planning, trade, and security. Their construction reflected the advanced engineering capabilities of the Timurid dynasty and the strategic vision of managing water resources for the benefit of the population and the entire state.[7]

References:

1. Boboyev Kh.B. Amir Temur and the kingdom of the Timurids. – T.: Kamalak, 1996. – 200 p.[1]

2. Azimov E. The reign of Amir Temur. – T.: Literature and Art Publishing House, 1996. -88 p.[2]

3. Akhmedov B. Two words about Timur’s tukuz // Eastern star. -T. 1989. – #8. – B. 132. [3]

4. Akhmedov N., Badirov A. Introduction to the history of Amir Temur and the Timurid period (text of lectures). – Samarkand: Zarafshan, 1999. – 74 p.[4]

5. Lucien Keren. The reign of Amir Temur. B. Ermatov, author of translation and comments from French. – T.: Manaviyat, 1999. – 224 p. [5]

6. Proceedings of the II Republican Scientific-Theoretical Conference on Amir Temur’s World History b-219[6]

7. Materials of the Republican scientific-practical conference on Amir Temur – the great general and statesman T; 2023 [7]

8. Z. Saidboboyev Historical geography T:.2010.  -125b [8]

9. History of land-water relations in Uzbekistan T:.2023. 182b [9]

10. AMIR TEMUR IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD T:. Sharq publishing house 2001. -102b [10]

11. Nizamiddin Shami Zafarnoma T:. Publishing House of Uzbekistan 1996. -154b [11]

BALLATA DEGLI INESISTENTI

Potrei tentare di narrarvi

al suono della mia tastiera

come Baasima morì di lebbra

senza mai raggiunger la frontiera,

o come l’armeno Méroujan

sotto uno sventolio di mezzelune

sentì svanire l’aria dai suoi occhi

buttati via in una fossa comune;

Charlee, che travasata a Brisbane

in cerca di un mondo migliore,

concluse il viaggio

dentro le fauci di un alligatore,

o Aurélio, chiamato Bruna

che dopo otto mesi d’ospedale

morì di aidiesse contratto

a battere su una tangenziale.

Nessuno si ricorderà di Yehoudith,

delle sue labbra rosse carminio,

finite a bere veleni tossici

in un campo di sterminio,

o di Eerikki, dalla barba rossa, che,

sconfitto dalla smania di navigare,

dorme, raschiato dalle orche,

sui fondi d’un qualche mare;

la testa di Sandrine, duchessa

di Borgogna, udì rumor di festa

cadendo dalla lama d’una ghigliottina

in una cesta,

e Daisuke, moderno samurai,

del motore d’un aereo contava i giri

trasumanando un gesto da kamikaze

in harakiri.

Potrei starvi a raccontare

nell’afa d’una notte d’estate

come Iris ed Anthia, bimbe spartane

dacché deformi furono abbandonate,

o come Deendayal schiattò di stenti

imputabile dell’unico reato

di vivere una vita da intoccabile

senza mai essersi ribellato;

Ituha, ragazza indiana,

che, minacciata da un coltello,

finì a danzare con Manitou

nelle anticamere di un bordello,

e Luther, nato nel Lancashire,

che, liberato dal mestiere d’accattone,

fu messo a morire da sua maestà britannica

nelle miniere di carbone.

Chi si ricorderà di Itzayana,

e della sua famiglia massacrata

in un villaggio ai margini del Messico

dall’esercito di Carranza in ritirata,

e chi di Idris, africano ribelle,

tramortito dallo shock e dalle ustioni

mentre, indomito al dominio coloniale,

cercava di rubare un camion di munizioni;

Shahdi, volò alta nel cielo

sulle aste della verde rivoluzione,

atterrando a Teheran, le ali dilaniate

da un colpo di cannone,

e Tikhomir, muratore ceceno,

che rovinò tra i volti indifferenti

a terra dal tetto del Mausoleo

di Lenin, senza commenti.

Questi miei oggetti di racconto 

fratti a frammenti di inesistenza

trasmettano suoni distanti

di resistenza.

BALLAD OF THE NON-EXISTENT

I could try to tell you

with the sound of my keyboard

how Baasima died of leprosy

without ever reaching the border,

or how the Armenian Meroujan

under a flutter of half-moons

felt the air in his eyes vanish

thrown into a mass grave;

Charlee, who moved to Brisbane

in search of a better world,

ends the journey

in the mouth of an alligator,

or Aurelio, named Bruna

who, after eight months in hospital

died of AIDS contracted

to hit a ring road.

Nobody will remember Yehoudith,

her lips carmine red,

erased by drinking toxic poisons

in an extermination camp,

or Eerikki, with his red beard, 

defeated by the turbulence of the waves,

who sleeps, scoured by orcas,

on the bottom of some sea;

the head of Sandrine, Duchess

of Burgundy heard the rumour of the feast

as it fell from the blade of a guillotine

into a basket

and Daisuke, modern samurai,

counted the revolutions of a plane’s engine 

transhumanizing a kamikaze gesture into harakiri.

I could go on and on

in the stifling heat of a summer night

how Iris and Anthia, deformed Spartan children

were abandoned,

or how Deendayal died of deprivation

attributable to the single crime

of living the life of an outcast

without ever having rebelled;

Ituha, an Indian girl,

threatened with a knife,

who ends up dancing with Manitou

in the anteroom of a brothel

and Luther, born in Lancashire

freed from the profession of beggar

and forced to die by His Britannic Majesty

in the coal mines.

Who will remember Itzayana

and her family massacred

in a village on the outskirts of Mexico

by Carranza’s retreating army,

and what of Idris, the African rebel,

stunned by shocks and burns

while untamed by colonial domination,

he tried to steal an ammunition truck;

Shahdi flew high into the sky

above the flagpoles of the Green Revolution,

landing in Tehran with his wings torn apart

by a cannon shot,

and Tikhomir, a Chechen bricklayer,

that fell among the indifferent faces

to the ground from the roof of Lenin’s Mausoleum,

without comment.

From objects of narrative

fractured into fragments of non-existence

transmits distant sounds

of resistance.

LA BALLATA DI PEGGY E PEDRO

La ballata di Peggy e Pedro è latrata dai punkabbestia

di Ponte Garibaldi, con un misto d’odio e disperazione,

insegnandoci, intimi nessi tra geometria ed amore,

ad amare come fossimo matematici circondati da cani randagi.

Peggy eri ubriaca, stato d’animo normale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

e l’alcool, nelle sere d’Agosto, non riscalda,

obnubilando ogni senso in sogni annichilenti,

trasformando ogni frase biascicata in fucilate nella schiena

contro corazze disciolte dalla calura estiva.

Sdraiata sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

tra i drop out della Roma città aperta,

apristi il tuo cuore all’insulto gratuito di Pedro,

tuo amante, e, basculandoti, cadesti nel vuoto,

disegnando traiettorie gravitazionali dal cielo al cemento.

Pedro, non eri ubriaco, ad un giorno di distanza,

non eri ubriaco, stato d’animo anormale,

nelle baraccopoli lungo l’alveo del Tevere,

o nelle serate vuote della movida milanese,

essendo intento a spiegare a cani e barboni

una curiosa lezione di geometria non euclidea.

Salito sui bordi del muraglione del ponte,

nell’indifferenza abulica dei tuoi scolari distratti,

saltasti, in cerca della stessa traiettoria d’amore,

dello stesso tragitto fatale alla tua Peggy,

atterrando, sul cemento, nello stesso istante.

I punkabbestia di Ponte Garibaldi, sgomberati dall’autorità locale,

diffonderanno in ogni baraccopoli del mondo la lezione surreale

imperniata sulla sbalorditiva idea

che l’amore sia un affare di geometria non euclidea.

THE BALLAD OF PEGGY AND PEDRO

The ballad of Peggy and Pedro barked out by the punkbestials

of the Garibaldi Bridge, with a mixture of hatred and despair,

teaches us the intimate relationship between geometry and love,

to love as if we were maths surrounded by stray dogs.

Peggy you were drunk, normal mood,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber

and alcohol, on August evenings, doesn’t warm you up,

clouding every sense in annihilating dreams,

transforming every chewed-up sentence into a gunfight in the back

on armour dissolved by the summer heat.

Lying on the edges of the bridge’s ledges,

among the drop-outs of the Rome open city,

you opened your heart to the gratuitous insult of Pedro,

your lover, and toppled over, falling into the void,

drawing gravitational trajectories from the sky to the cement.

Pedro wasn’t drunk, a day’s journey away,

you weren’t drunk, abnormal state of mind,

in the slums along the bed of the Tiber,

or in the empty parties of Milan’s movida,

with the intention of explaining to dogs and tramps

a curious lesson of non-Euclidean geometry.

Mounted on the edge of the bridge,

in the apathetic indifference of your distracted pupils,

you jumped, in the same trajectory of love,

along the same fatal path as your Peggy,

landing on the cement at the same instant.

The punkbestials of the Garibaldi Bridge, cleared by the local authority,

will spread a surreal lesson to every slum in the world

centred on the astonishing idea

that love is a matter of non-Euclidean geometry.

NON RIESCO AD INTEGRARMI

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline

distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,

nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel

deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico

rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,

canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor

disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,

deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,

volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,

costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.

Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia

in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,

mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,

mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.

I DON’T FIT IN

I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder

I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,

if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize

irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.

I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion

i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,

i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac

defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.

I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition,

i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller,

flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,

forced to pack subtitles for non-users.

I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias,

in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile,

setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom,

i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).

2nd stage student of Samarkand State University named after Sharof Rashidov

Printed book or an e-book. Which one is better? 

Today, the Internet has become a part of life. Even without phones and social media, people feel sick. This situation is observed all over the world. Unfortunately, this is a bad habit. Because sitting on the phone and computer for a long time in the same position damages the back and other organs of a person. If a person does not take his eyes off mobile devices for three days, his sleep pattern will be disturbed. And the production of necessary hormones in the body slows down and leads a person to dangerous situations. The light emitted from the phone screen causes eye diseases.

As with the other side of the coin, the Internet has several advantages. For example, we can read the book we want sitting at home. It is always with us in our pocket. And publishing a printed book requires a lot of trees. If trees are cut down, the ecology and environment will be damaged. These are the advantages of electronic forms of reading.

But we must not forget that the book is the secret of man, the solution to all problems. The book serves as a blueprint for what we want to do. So, don’t forget about the book. Since ancient times, scientists have not achieved knowledge, goodness, wisdom through this book, many sources are hidden in the depths of books. So… Who can reach this treasure? Of course, this is us young people.

(Central Asian teen girl with dark hair in a white sweater with black objects. She’s at a wooden desk in an office holding a pen over a newspaper).

One Night in Bombay, India

One wild night in Bombay, India

I walked into an evil bar 20 drinks too sober

On the wicked wrong end of a Friday night booze run.

On the bad side of the Moon over by where the Martian dudes

Sat drinking their Martian whisky, ogling the Venus maidens.

Leering at the earth women who were walking by

Wearing skin-tight pants made their eyeballs hurt.

I gave in to the spirit and went over to the Martian dudes

And got drunk on the Martian madness, shot after shot

Smoking some good old-fashioned Mars dust.

And flew off to the planet Jupiter

Just to have me some fun with a lady

Who said she was from Saturn?

I did not know she was from the planet Pluto.

Until I woke up the next day, naked, under the alien Sun

In jail on the Planet Alpha Centura, light-years from home,

A million miles away, a thousand years in the future

And I had no money, no honey, no way home.

Still 20 drinks too sober, I just sat down in that jail

And started drinking away my time

Drinking fine cold assed Centurion wine

and Pluto Whisky.

One day I woke up

 and found me back in Bombay

Standing outside that evil bar

in the miasmic mist

Over by the Martian whorehouse,

 down by the Gate of India

And I walked up to

the Saturn-Pluto babe

And said,

“Man, that was some bad shit

Bad craziness.”

Let’s do it again someday,

she smiled, and I had my way

Knew the day would come again.

When I would be drinking with the Martians

And something wicked my way would come

Just another night of wicked fun

On the wrong side of the Moon

On the right night

in the mean streets of Bombay.

I SOLD

If they say I’m bad, I’m sorry

I wished you the best.

I worked hard to create my beautiful garden,

I put it on my wrist.

If a weak servant goes astray and loses his way,

Shaking my heart, I walked down the aisle without answering.

They made me cry from pain,

I put the stone in the brass.

Dilbar is happy, and he is unhappy with malicious hearts.

I put my dignity in walking straight as a bow.

CREATIVE GIRL

       Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna was born on March 5, 2007 in the Karshi district of the Kashkadarya region.

   She is currently the 10th “B” student of the 43rd school. 

      Dilbarhan is the queen of poetry, the owner of creativity, a singer with a beautiful voice, and a ghazal girl.

      She came first in the “Leader of the Year” competition.

        1st prize in the regional stage of the “Hundred Gazelles and Hundred Gems” competition.

         She took part in the “Children’s Forum” category and won first place in many competitions.

          She is currently the coordinator of the training department of Tallikuron MFY in Karshi district.

          Kamalak captain of the opposite district.

          Head captain of the “Girls There” club at school 43. 

         The articles titled “Memory is immortal and precious”, “Our School” and “Mother” were published three times in Kenya Times International magazine in 2024.

     In 2023, the first poems were published in the poetry collection “Yulduzlar Yogdusi” of the creative youth of the Kashkadarya region.

      In 2024, ghazals of the creative youth of the Republic were published in the poetry collection “Youth of Uzbekistan”.