PIPEDREAMS

		
I dream of a landscape where greetings don’t flash fangs.
		
A family table where discussion is civil; folks listen—
		
don’t just wait to break in and berate those they hate.

		
I dream of a climate of inquiry; fair, open-minded,
		
where research is key, and critical thinking weighs facts.
		
Yes it’s a fantasy. Courtesy, tolerance, trust—

		
trampled to dust by the name-calling, self-righteous rants
		
of shock-jocks who rage about enemies, dangers from                      immigrants,
		
Muslims and Buddhists, gay couples, uppity women…

		
I dream of a land where the “great” days weren’t back in 

the ‘50’s,
		
and no one is trying to turn back the clock with grim laws—
		
rather, pursues equal rights, equal justice for all.

		
I dream.  Dream and hope. Harmony. Healing. I vote. 

		

A boy’s plea to a lost home

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).

        Nature

Nature is the most beautiful beauty given to us. We all appreciate this beauty. But, until now, due to the wrong use of nature and the environment, people have a negative impact not only on nature ,but also their own lives.

Many factories, machines and electronics are still being produced today. As a result, the atmosphere is being poisoned. People are also breathing toxic gases. Let us and nature be friends. Because then let protect himself.

Maftuna Rustamova 

30 the school 

8-“a” class

My country is lucky

Iqbal will always bless my country,

It is a blessing to be born in this country.

The flag is raised high in the sky,

His name echoes on the ground all the time.

The world has recognized my country today,

Pride is burning in the heart of every young person.

Fayz-u is full of refreshment every day,

Gratitude on the tongue, tears in the eyes.

Allah also made us independent,

All conditions are for us young people.

The door of opportunity is open,

The youth of Uzbeks are in trouble today.

It’s okay, no matter how much I praise

Day by day, our land grows brighter.

“We will never be inferior to anyone!”

This is our noble goal, our motto.

Shodiyeva Mehribon Amin’s daughter was born in 1998 in Shofirkon district of Bukhara region. The young artist’s poems have been published several times in newspapers and magazines such as “Shofirkon Ovozi”, “Bukhara Sharif”, “Istiqlal Gunchali”, “Bukhara Literature and Art”, “Bilimdon”, “Dono Word”. Collections entitled “Nurli addresses”, “Begubor otsylar” have been published. Currently, he is an independent student of the Bukhara State Pedagogical Institute.

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.

My heart laments for my uncle

Your beautiful words, my daughter,

My bright faces smiling at me,

Once again my eyes see,

My uncle enters my dreams.

Once in my dreams,

He says that Venus is a star,

John calls me my daughter,

I can’t wait to see my uncle.

Once again fill our house with light,

The guest was sitting in the net,

He would open his mouth from prayer and pick up a book.

If only we could see that moment.

My little uncle swallows his longing,

My mother waits for him every day.

My daughter-in-law, my children! wins

If only we could see our uncle once!

We used to see light on their faces every time

Almighty God, build us a palace of happiness again,

Turn my uncle’s face towards us,

Let’s see it one last time!

Only in prayer would he pray,

They always say “Alhamdulillah”.

They gave us only love and affection,

Show us your uncle’s face in heaven!

She is wearing a white dress, her face is radiant white…

May the Almighty listen to our pain.

Look towards us slowly with your light,

Cousin, show us!

My heart felt like it was crushed

The river of youth in my heart overflowed.

Today is the day I will see you,

Come now, my uncle, show your faces!

I can’t get enough of looking at his picture.

I will not be happy without them.

I can’t remember every moment

Enough! Show my uncle’s face!

Give us all a sincere look,

Let him run towards us like a great wind.

May he bless us for the last time,

May our hearts be filled with the love of my uncle!

 Abdullajonova Zuhrakhan

Abdullajonova, daughter of Zuhrakhan Rustamjon, 24/09/2007. She is now 16 years old and is interested in writing poetry. Her favorite pastime is writing poetry. She managed to publish her poems in several newspapers of the national level in Uzbekistan. She wants to publish a book in the future.

THE NATURE OF POLITICS

In politics, beware, for interests collide

Nobody’s got your back, everyone’s on their own side

Dealing with politicians, a treacherous game

Sleep with tigers, eyes wide open, or you’ll feel the flames

Someone’s always being used, don’t be blind

If you can’t find the pawn, it’s you they’ll leave behind

Serving politicians, a temporary fix

Once the wound heals, your usefulness mixes

With dust and ashes, your value unseen

Politicians recognize needs, not loyalty or sheen

Don’t wail more than the bereaved, they’ll get the gain

While you inherit enemies, and endless pain

Choose your interests, when conflicts arise

Don’t sacrifice your own, for politicians’ compromise

Never cross oceans, for those who won’t cross the street

They’ll speak at your funeral, but won’t lift a finger to meet

Family and health, sacred and true

Don’t use them as pawns, in politics’ cruel game anew

It’s not that serious, don’t sacrifice your soul

For temporary rewards, that will eventually grow old

Youth, beware, don’t risk it all

Career, health, character, integrity, for politicians’ thrall

Unless you’re in control, with a long-term plan

Don’t sacrifice your future, for a fleeting politician’s hand.