One day I will escape to Heaven
Push aside the disobedience for a moment,
One day I will put an end to it all.
Don't give in to the world and whims
One day I will escape to Heaven.
Unable to control my passion in time,
I am afraid of Satan's temptation.
I can't stand gossip and corruption.
One day I will escape to Heaven.
Revenge for wealth, for beauty
I will leave a pile of everything.
If you don't find it, you will be surprised and cry.
One day I will escape to Heaven.
My life filled the swamp of sin
When I look at Mozi, I get scared.
I miss you, my love for you
One day I will escape to Heaven.
Then you recite to me,
I will plant flowers from prayers on my grave.
If you hurt my broken heart,
One day I will escape to Heaven.
Passing through Sirat with my parents,
I will slowly enter Rayon,
After going through heavy and light questions and answers,
One day I will escape to Heaven.
I am waiting for you in Firdausi,
Thank you, I will live there forever.
If Allah wills, go my servant.
One day I will escape to Heaven.
Abstract: Every child living in this country should love books from childhood, learn the secrets of science, be aware of our past history, learn the knowledge left by our great ancestors, which are the reason for today’s medicine, know the generals who founded our great statehood , representatives of our spirituality and literature.
Key words: Literary critic, Patriot, there is no doubt that human qualities, cultural heritage, and the fruits of artistic thought have made a worthy contribution to the masterpieces of world literature.
“The sacred of our great ancestors
before his memory and courage
we have a head. “The one who knows his story wins.”
Shavkat Mirziyoyev,
President of the Republic of Uzbekistan
Our respected President always works for the benefit of our youth. Every day you live is full of joy and excitement. The created conditions are a wing for us, young people, to conquer the heights of knowledge. The works of such thinkers as Alisher Navoi, Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur, Abdullah Kadiri, Mahmudhoja Behbudi, Abdulhamid Cholpon, Munawar Kori, Abdullah Avloni, Ishaq Khan Tora, Ghulam Zafari, Abdurauf Fitrat are published. What’s the best gift for young book lovers? A person’s love for books since childhood. Otherwise, the secrets of science cannot be mastered.
Along with mastering the rare works handed down to us from our ancestors, we must expand our thinking and reach higher heights in science. We must earn their trust. A special love for national literature, like Alisher Navoi, who knows the value of the Motherland, like Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur, who creates immortal works, like Abdullah Kadiri, a strong playwright, like Mahmudhoja Behbudi, who has love for the Motherland, like Abdulhamid Cholpon, like Abdullah Avloni. , research work related to the education of the younger generation like Munavvarkori. Patriotic people like Abdurauf Fitrat, who always went towards the goal and made a great contribution to the future of the country, the selfless work of Ishaq Khan Torah, and the thirst for knowledge of Ghulam Zafari should become an example for our youth. Today’s youth of Uzbekistan should be worthy children of such great ancestors.
On the initiative of the head of our state, monuments to Alisher Navoi and Babur were erected, and names were given to the streets. Famous Uzbek veterans were awarded the Order of Merit for their work on the path of freedom, independence, dedication on the path of freedom, as well as their contribution to the creation of a “national system of education and upbringing.”
Poems
***
no one except the ground
knows how tired trams say goodbye
to each other
***
a hungry belly
gives birth to a rifle
***
The sky is moving
The ant's gaze falls into the suggestion of life
Failure of life after adulthood
Older children are moving into the abyss
The abyss from which it all began
The iron tooth of a smile haunts the blind
The ash sketch of a heart beats like a real one
Who fell into whose life at that moment when a billion natural coincidences came together?
Gender, age, physical (etc...) contingencies of thought over the abyss of existence
Examination of immediacy, a patch of eyes, a rush of touch
And overhead the sky is in continuous motion
Reprint by WordCity Literary Journal
***
Handsome boy playing games
Here will be a checkpoint of childhood
Here will be parting with illusions
There will be grass of hearts
There will be a teddy bear like das tod
Women's hands do not bake bread for him
A lover or mistress will not make him happy
A boy is playing a game of war in a game of disappearance
Reprint by WordCity Literary Journal
***
Restoration of the sand from which we molded the largest palace
The last moment before parting
Bergmanian is leaning against the blue sky
Peonies of views became a dream of tired palms
And above the heads of the trees appears the trunk of antiquity
Thus begins the wild sunset of the little hearty sun
Reprint by WordCity Literary Journal
***
grapes ripen
pupils (eyes) learn
to recall the past
Reprint by Ranger magazine
***
Аgony
АgonyАgony
АgonyАgonyАgony
АgonyАgonyАgonyАgony
АgonyАgonyАgonyАgonyАgony
АgonyАgonyАgonyАgonyАgonyAgony
Аnd then the skin turns to dust like jesus never existed
Reprint by Ranger magazine
***
eating pudding
is the same
as what one
can do
іn an unknown war
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(but it's free)
***
Green multi-meaning people
The last viola adjacent to the heart of the air coffin
Someone was knocking on the door of every house that night
Everyone was knocking on the door of some house that night
In order to light a candle of hope in the window
Forever
Reprint by Slant
***
Everyone likes you so much that it feels like you're dying
Wild dog masks instead of faces and their own bones are gnawed for dinner
Dog masks of tenderness insomnia of honor
How often are wars called just?
How often do we fight for our own love?
Reprint by Slant
***
Smile to the hidden camera
The gas chambers are the tuning forks of death
The art of escaping in time
The art of being invisible
Inexorable time: instead of a walk in the parks, I end up on a photo session of police surveillance cameras
Reprint by Slant
***
Constitution of meaning
The existence of life for the sake of the existence of the grave
Beyond the grave —
Nothing from which
Everything began
Reprint by Slant
***
Dancing in the silence
The silence of the movements
Is inevitable
A shovel digs out the plague
Reprint by Slant
***
Red triangles pop up in front of my eyes
A bird graveyard grows under the bed
What message is carefully carried like a twig in the beak of a bird?
How many cemeteries would it take to justify all the wars in the world?
***
The sea is like grief
We are all rowers
We are all drowners
Water counts its quantity
We are all counted
We are all (united?) units
We floated up from the bottom to start drowning
***
The tree plays with its branches
The tree plays with other people's children
The tree becomes a home for the birds
Can a person become a home for someone?
***
A dog walks in the woods just to be a dog
Grass asking ass about shit
And glass of silence is woven into the conversation
Nobody picks up after a dog that doesn't have an owner
Grass doesn't care
The grass can take anything
The dog wants to die
Вut won't
***
1
I leave the black room and see the night
There are no butterflies visible outside or inside the stomach
Only black figures surround everything around
The cold dissolves after turning on the heater
[That's what I call the sun now]
I haven't seen the sun for a long time
And my grandmother will never see anything again
2
I have a few hours left before the apartment doors are locked. Outside.
3
Nobody will come
Nobody's coming back
Nobody will rise again
There's not enough air for anyone
No one has enough love
4
The glass against which the bird is pressed is silent
I conduct the notes of silence
The grass warmed by silence grows
Music turns into vapor
5
Oak trees say nothing at night
However, just like during the day
My hands are overgrown with leaves
I'm full of humility
Reprint by Ice floe press
Dead daughter
What would I say to my daughter when war broke out?
Perhaps people are animals, but with the difference that people kill even when they are not hungry. Why kill a man if you can't eat his meat?
Perhaps I would have told my daughter that she is an adult and must form her own attitude toward what is going on.
Perhaps I could tell the world history of wars, if history were not a whore.
Perhaps I would have tried to explain scientifically what was going on.
Perhaps I would have said that over the course of thousands of years the human brain has degenerated and shrunk in size faster than it had previously grown in size for hundreds of thousands of years.
Perhaps I would be silent.
Perhaps I would have taken a piece of paper and drawn a human being in the shape of a bird. Surely, I would have drawn a cage for the bird.
Perhaps I would have bought a dummy gun at the market and pointed it at my own daughter to explain what is exploding outside the window.
Perhaps I would run away from home so I wouldn't have to look for my daughter to explain the inexplicable.
Perhaps I would have said: "It's okay, nothing's going on."
Perhaps I would be silent again. Or screamed. Or cried.
Perhaps I would have scraped a crushed ant off my shoe and shown it to my daughter.
Maybe I would apologize to all the children of the world for being a fucked-up adult.
Perhaps I would have torn all the toy soldiers' limbs off for clarity and honesty.
Perhaps I would have died.
Perhaps I would have told my daughter that there is nothing after death.
Perhaps I would have drank myself to death.
Perhaps I would have shown my daughter all the war movies of the world so that she would take a stand on her own.
Perhaps I would have written my daughter an e-mail explaining what was going on.
Perhaps I would have torn apart all the children's toys so that my daughter would finally understand what war is all about.
I didn't say anything to my daughter when the war started.
Because I don't and never did have a daughter: I only have the war outside my window.
Reprint by The Wise Owl
The Ephemeral World Then, 7:57 on the Clock, Prose Poems for Lost Souls
one
the wild summer sun and the countenance of the earth
the two men in Orlando were talking about baseball, and thinking of it, the two men in Nevada were talking about hockey. the first two spoke of spring training and the second two of drafts and players old and new. each time I went away from the group and tried to find what the landscape said. birds or the lakes, the desert sun or the vastness of rocky natural structures. they were not wrong per se, but they never looked up to see the sun, thought I. and the dusk would begin soon enough, and not having seen the brightness and the horizon, the firmament clouds say, and not having listened to the wind, then what would they do and what would they really know beyond statistics and local gossip?
two
Cars and Stars, and Coyote Road Abridged, Destinies and Nonduality-Advaita-Vedanta
first I was a incarnated and then not long after I was in a little store on the south west side of an intersection that was almost always grey and dirty, unwelcoming and represented the tough and rugged parts of a metropolis and not the good aspects. I wonder if anything is still there where that shop was. I suppose something is there. in the middle was a huge display with toy cars. i didn’t want the cars and never thought of it,- not even one car and not even once. I just liked how it all looked. I was not identified w/the world in the way others were. Later I was gifted many, many toy cars and the person taking care of me stole them.
decades later I sat with the two blondes on a large swing in the dusk in a northern town. one, the Piscean had long hair and one had short they were saying how the world was and were very smart. yes one was a Pisces and I don’t like Pisces but she was on the level and an exception. her eyes and her cheeks looked like a Pisces woman, as were the problems she struggled with. I told them they were great people the two of them which was true, but that i had to go. a few weeks later the one called me and I knew something was wrong at the first ring because she never called me. she was calling to say the blonde Piscean on the level woman was dead. she had been killed in a car accident by a drunk driver.
I thought of how much I didn’t like cars much anymore, and I was soon under the summer dusk but the dusk would turn to night which is dark and the summer would turn to autumn which is less colourful indeed and the autumn or fall speaks of winter and it’s bold and cold and grey times that wait like a disease or an unfortunate or even tragic destiny.
three
beyond the towns
In the denser parts of the town where there were more houses, more infrastructure, more electric light and other, there had been snow but it melted. Yet, not too far north of there where the town ended, an old brick church unintentionally marking a quick liminal way between the two, a church from another, simpler time, well there began snow. and that snow, because no heat troubled it, stayed on the ground and branches and the whole world there… evergreens-sumac-stones, little streams, wide and narrow paths, birch trees, shriveling strange old mushrooms plus a myriad of other things of course,…and far,- so far in a distant field framed by beige reeds that danced just a bit for a winter wind whose end had reached them, a hawk sat at the very top of an old tree that was leafless. it surely surveyed the landscape stoically, sagaciously, and it looked for some reason that it had been there forever. how the hawk is loved more than the world. how the hawk means more than the whole world. how the hawk by the snow in the abandoned winter fields under the opacity of the firmament is then the world.
four
those old leaves and the ridge or the valley floor
wandering along the old path. how old is that path and the surrounding ones and who made them through the summer way, the autumnal breeze, the winter snow wafting or the spring rain light and kissing the air? the aged tree, fallen a long time ago, off the ridge and across the valley floor, its root system exposed and looking like a thousand intertwined phantoms from an underworld unknown. up there somewhere, red sumac that receives the snow, and the sumac is calm, stoic, for maybe it knows something on the other side of drama or has never believed fully in the world. yes the blue sky peaks out briefly but soon, too soon, it is grey and overcast again. the evergreens and old leaves, the valley and ridge and the small and large paths see it through always. so shall we.