Now I want to share about my life. Are you ready to listen to me?. As we all know, every person suffers from painful losses at some point in their lives. My dad was on his deathbed…

Even while in pain, he used to lecture about how I should be there for my mom and sisters, protect them, and be the man of this family even at a young age. 

I knew that day was coming, the day I would be losing my title “kid,” the day I would carry all responsibilities of my dad’s and also mine, and the day I would become father to my siblings.

It came… It was harder than I thought to bear the pain of losing the person you love the most and at the same time, to be strong for your family as the only man left now. 

It was painful—the fact that I didn’t spend time with my dad a lot, the fact that we don’t have enough memories, and the fact that Dad doesn’t feel proud when I achieve the dreams I promised to him. To fix that, I started to spend more time with my mom; it wasn’t talking and chilling but more like cleaning the house, cooking in the early morning, and going to work together. I got a job in a clothes shop. It was harder than I thought, giving suggestions, communicating with different types of people, and handling their personalities.

Even though I faced some challenges at first by not managing time properly, in the end, I learned to be there for my family and work. Also, my teacher Shukurova O’g’iloy helped me a lot in learning English. She was always patient, kind, and understanding. Although English seemed tough to me at first, thanks to my teacher’s kind words and wise advice, I gradually fell in love with the language. She taught me grammar, pronunciation, and, most importantly, self-confidence. I was afraid to speak English before, but my teacher’s words, “You can do it,” made me confident. She gave me strength and confidence and never left me alone. Every lesson of my teacher was interesting, and I looked forward to each lesson. Instead of criticizing my mistakes, she patiently explained them and encouraged me to try again. This gave me great confidence. My teacher became not only a teacher for me but also a kind person, like a mother. She loved me, supported me, and cared deeply for me. That’s why I value her so much and love her like a mother in my life.

This challenge, one I cursed at first, taught me being strong doesn’t mean hiding pain; it means carrying it while still showing up for the people who need you. Most importantly, I discovered that real connection comes from shared moments, not expensive places. These lessons have shaped me into someone who values family, hard work, and growth.

My name is Annamurodov Umarbek, a passionate and ambitious high school student born on November 10, 2009, in Karshi, Kashkadarya Region, Uzbekistan! 

I currently study at college. I have earned several educational grants and awards, and my achievements include being an IA volunteer, Collab Crew member, volunteer at a youth center, Youth Perspective Club member, Youth Run Club member, Avlod talk participant, coordinator of Kashkadarya, and 1-degree diploma.

With a deep interest in leadership, public speaking, and writing, I continue to work hard toward achieving academic excellence and inspiring others in my community. A bright example of this you can find on my Telegram channel @Annamurodovv_Umarbek.

The Wisdom of a Prayer

When summer came, Aunt Anora would come to our house every evening with her granddaughter Humora to watch TV. Because there was no electricity in her hut. She would wake up at dawn in her house among the reeds and go around her yard – after all, she would take care not to let the animals eat the reeds. She would sell the reeds and help her family. Although she did not have much money, Aunt Anora could not stop working.

By the way, they had about a hundred sheep, more than seventy goats, more than thirty cows and dozens of horses – but still, Aunt Anora’s enthusiasm for work amazed everyone. The melon crops in their yard were overflowing – not only people, but even birds seemed to be waiting in line. After all, he didn’t trust anyone — “My own work, my own livelihood,” he always said.

When the sun was slowly setting below the horizon, Aunt Anora would come to our house, first opening her hands in prayer:

— Oh my God, You are kind. Don’t make me need anyone else but You. Take my life where I walk. Protect me from being a burden to someone while lying in bed. Amen… Allahu Akbar…

This prayer of his always seemed strange to me. After all, he has everything, right? If he doesn’t lack anything. Why does he ask for so much money? Unable to hide my surprise, one day I asked him sarcastically:

— Aunt, why are you so worried? In any case, we don’t have any…

He smiled, handed me the tea, and frowned:

— You’ll understand when the time comes…

At that moment, my daughter-in-law, Oisara, who was making a batch in front of the tandoor, said, “Zuhra, bring the bowls, we’ll make the soup.”

Years passed. Aunt Anora’s prayers rang in my ears. I went to study in Tashkent. However, soon after, a constant sore throat began to bother me. Sometimes I felt embarrassed in front of my friends. A year passed in such agony.

The second year of study began. But the pain in my body made me think more than the lessons. During this time, my heart would pound, I would feel weak, and my complexion would turn pale. I dropped out of school and returned home. The doctors examined me, and finally they gave me the diagnosis: pulmonary tuberculosis.

 My head was spinning, my heart was pounding. Sometimes I could barely breathe. The doctors were surprised.

— This is the first time in my career that I have ever encountered such a situation, — said Sister Zaynab, her eyes sad.

My condition worsened day by day. At that time, Aunt Anora’s prayers kept ringing in my ears: “Take my life while I am walking…”. Could it be that I, too, would be bedridden and unable to drink a single mouthful of water without anyone’s help?

My heart shuddered. My limbs trembled, and my eyes filled with tears. Now I understood — no one wants to be in need, even the closest ones. Loneliness is the most painful cry in silence. For a person lying in bed, no one hears this cry. No comfort, no consolation can be a balm for your pain. Fighting illness alone is the most difficult test for a person.

One such day, I went to the window. Outside, the autumn breath was deep and the birds were chirping. But I couldn’t feel this beauty inside me. The sadness that was pressing hard on my heart was like darkness. My eyes were fixed far from the window – on the light clouds at the foot of the sky. For a moment, Aunt Anora came into my mind – she always emphasized that “One should not forget to be grateful.”

Suddenly, something trembled inside me. It was hope. Although the pain had taken over my body, my spirit had not yet been defeated. At that moment, my mother entered the room. Her gaze was as kind as if it were swallowing me, and in her hand was a bowl of hot soup. I looked at her – in this look there were a thousand words, in a thousand words there was only one plea: “I still want to live.”

 She put the soup on the table and stroked my hair:

— You are strong, my daughter… You will pass this test too. As Aunt Anora said, one should not be absorbed in silence, there is life in it too.

Her words began to illuminate the darkness inside me a little. Perhaps this pain did not come to break me, but to teach me a lesson. Perhaps I am now understanding the truth that Aunt Anora said: a person should be grateful for every breath, every step, every mouthful of water.

A light whisper was heard in the silence. I did not know if it was the wind outside or the patience in my heart. But there was one truth that I knew:

Life is the realization of the blessing of opening your eyes every morning when you wake up. Every heartbeat is the belief in living.

The greatest truth that I realized during these difficult days was the wisdom hidden in Aunt Anora’s prayer.

 She pleaded:

“Take my life where I am, don’t make me need anyone…”

At first, these words seemed to me just a fear of old age. But now I understand that this prayer was a request for humility before life, for the preservation of human dignity. Because lying in bed and needing someone’s help with every breath is a test not of the body, but of the soul.

I gradually began to recover. Every morning, when I wake up, I repeat Aunt Anora’s prayer:

“Oh my God, You are kind, don’t make your servant need anyone other than You…”

Now I have learned to walk with gratitude at every step, to feel life with every breath. Pain breaks the body, but patience makes a person an idol.

And I understood: sometimes one prayer changes a whole life.

Abdisattorova Hurshida was born on November 9, 1997, in the village of Olmazor, Chirakchi district, Kashkadarya region. She is currently a third-year student of Sports Journalism at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications.

Her articles have been published in the newspapers Hurriyat and Vaziyat, as well as on the websites Olamsport and Ishonch. She is also a participant of the international scientific-practical conference titled “Future Scientist – 2025.”

LATE LOVE

I loved you—

to forgive,

yet found myself in a place

where forgiveness could not reach.

My hands were not for you,

they opened only in prayer

to stay in love.

I said, when I arrived,

“You will mend my wounds,”

but instead you opened my heart

and turned it into a vast

bleeding sore.

I waited for your balm,

yet you—named my illness:

“Separation,”

and with that name

you hurt me even more…

I saw my dreams in your eyes,

yet to forget them,

I looked at your lips.

First, you conquered my heart,

in the end, I became

a prisoner of your love.

I wept for you—

in every tear, a fragment of affection,

in every sigh, a great truth.

And now—

when I leave, saying,

“I’ll tend my own wounds,”

the hardest blow

is your

“too-late love.”

….

JUDGED MYSELF

I judged myself—

No witnesses,

no lawyer,

no accuser to show the indictment.

Only a mirror…

broken, silent.

I answered

to my innocent guilt—

my answers stretched endlessly.

I did not cry—yet within me

something cracked, shattering.

Words failed on my tongue,

tears ran down my face.

Before me stood I—

yet like a stranger…

Nowhere could I be truly myself.

Only in my own being,

I became everyone.

The questioning marks in my eyes

were wiped away by tears.

In my hand—a notebook,

even the words themselves

refused to write.

I did not write—

Words themselves refused to be penned.

This is no poetic gathering—

it is a trial.

Silence runs in my blood.

Beneath my nails, gathered envy—

gentle as silence,

sharp as pain.

I forgave myself.

I judged myself…

Jakhongir Nomozov is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.

Melody of my soul 

The heart has a song that flight,

A melody is woven in the light.

The echoes are clear and true,

Always a love forever new. 

The morning has a gentle rise,

Dreams reflected in our eyes.

It dances as a vibrant sway,

May rhythm a soul everyday. 

Have a cosmic endless art,

The timeless music is heart. 

Its colors are bright and bold,

The story has at the moment told.

Melody is tender and profound,

The truest spirit can be found.

Dr. Debabrata Maji’s journey is one woven with the artistry of words, the precision of engineering, and the resounding echoes of literary passion. Born on September 6, 1961, in the serene Deulpur Village of Howrah District, West Bengal, India, his life’s path meandered through the structured world of engineering before blossoming into an awe-inspiring legacy in the poetic realm. Despite pursuing a career in engineering, the written word never loosened its grip on his soul.

It was as if poetry was inscribed into his very being, waiting patiently for the right moment to erupt into brilliance. And erupt, it did. What followed was an unstoppable rise through the ranks of the World Poetic Fraternity, marking Dr. Maji as a luminary in contemporary literature.  His literary prowess, distinguished by a profound sensitivity and refined craftsmanship, has been recognized far and wide. The world acknowledged his contributions by bestowing upon him fourteen Honorary Doctorates, a testament to the depth and impact of his work. Recognition followed in waves, with eleven prestigious Annual Literary Awards adorning his illustrious career – one of the most remarkable being the Silver Saraswati Statue, a symbol of divine wisdom and artistic excellence.

The weight of his influence is evident in the vast array of publications that carry his name. His unique poetic creations have graced numerous magazines, newspapers, and contemporary anthologies, reaching readers across India and beyond. His artistry, rooted in heartfelt emotions and intricate expressions, carved a distinct space within global literary landscapes. Dr. Maji’s written legacy is solidified through eight remarkable poetry collections, each bearing the coveted ISBN. His books – Kavita Bichitra, Kavita Darpan, Probad Angina, Premer Boikunth, Sonnet Bhaskar, Harano Bamsari, Smarane Manane and Dreamscape are more than literary works; they are extensions of his soul. They have found their way into the hands of eager readers, offering solace, beauty, and wisdom through poetic verses that transcend time.

The accolades are endless, honouring his artistic contributions with the most distinguished awards: Bharat Gaurav Ishan Award, International Solidarity Award, Kabi Ratna Award, Sarat Sahitya Ratna Award, Bengal Shiksha Gaurav, International Kabi Ratna Award, and many more, including the Royal of Art and Literature Award, Bishwa Bongo Sahitya Award, Golden Pen Award, Golden Star Award, William Shakespeare Award, Poet of Nature Award, and the revered Gold Poetry Prize Winner. These titles bear witness to his unwavering commitment to poetry and the sheer brilliance of his literary craft. His story is not merely about accolades or achievements – it is about a man who dared to transform life’s melodies into poetry, leaving behind an enduring legacy that will inspire generations to come.

Aura

A silent Pitchfork, a rubble outside

I am all that i have been, not so well connected

A galactic fusion over the rimmed walls

A paycheck for the month it’s all a plaything

Poetry calls me often in the darkest night

A knowing edge surpassed me

As I went down the rabbit hole

This is the age of new thought protestants

A summer binder over at my glass

I know that butter cup lifelong simulation

Poetic engulfment is rising the aura is new

Of sub divisions and postmodern pranks

The fun we had at the treehouse jingoism

The subversion is all around my wretched watch.

BOUND BY GUILT

In front of the cage,

you stood with the key,

holding me still –

„Look what you’ve done to yourself“

you screamed.

You never stopped me from running –

just chained my wrists

with silence and guilt.

You never raised a hand,

yet I wore bruises

like a second skin.

You’d laugh and say,

„So clumsy, love –

you must have tripped again“.

Jovana Lj. Milovanović is a Serbian poet, born on December 10, 2000. She is a member of the Association of Young Artists of Culture. Her poetry collection In the Beginning There Was a Woman is currently in preparation.