Butterfly

The life of a butterfly is one day,
Isn't it hard for him?
Thinking of living one day after all,
Is not the biggest concern.

I thought once,
A butterfly has no heart.
Doesn't he cry?
It hurts even if he has a heart.

I have a question,
Don't come?
They are also each other,
I will hurt your hearts.


✍️ Qosimova Parizoda 

***
people don't want to die either
in spring or summer
prisons are open all year round
(Reprint by Dreginald)

***
sad clowns
die with a smile
every time
performed on stage
(Reprint by Dreginald)

***
nightingale staged a night gala
every night he flies to my yard
even after my death
(Reprint by Dreginald)

***
torn faces
litter
torn tracks
(Reprint by Dreginald)

***
statues also die
and time is not easy to consider
among all that one
in memory of which one today
the bells are ringing in the church
(Reprint by Dreginald)

***
Roar of war
Garcia Lorca don't go back to Granada
(Reprint by Monterey poetry review)

***
summer is a mystery
the winter of nuclear war still
lives in the heart
(Reprint by Monterey poetry review)

***
Old-fashioned tragicomedy

armor protects the soul with the body
and the bombs are flying
(Reprint by Monterey poetry review)

***
The cemetery under the bed opens at the first request
Once upon a time in childhood we were taught to make little men from matches
Today we are taught to burn

My mother says that life was better under the Soviet Union
Someday the future will come, but not now
Today we are taught the word "later"
(Reprint by Star 82 review, 11.3)

***
doctor said 
that i died 
and i agreed

***
Cardboard Bird
Indignant
In a raspy voice

Doesn’t eat anything
Doesn’t drink anything
Protests

Doesn’t touch anyone
Рretending to be the wind
Handing out money right and left

Imagines himself
Image
A picture of the postmodern half-life

And something else very important
I do not remember
Maybe wings
Could be a beak
Maybe a soul

Exactly
I do not remember
(Reprint by Wise Owl)

***
I promise that I will take away my painful darkness
But not right now

I will be able to understand the meaning of this darkness in the future
Well for now

Give me a chance to die again
Cause freedom is loneliness
Love is a crime against loneliness
(Reprint by Wise Owl)

***
I play war games and watch scat on TV
My freckles are gone
And yes, I will have to pay back the loan for this
(Reprint by Corvus review)

***
Houston, you're in trouble
The gypsy's prediction did not come true
And a lot has happened
Ever since someone jumped off a bridge
The dew from under the eyes has not dried
Where did it all go
Where does it all go
Republic of the Dusk Star
Your cold palms sparkling in the sun
Whisper that it's very cold
The sun has completely faded
The universe is tensed up
And lives in constant tension
around you ever since
How someone jumped off a bridge
At the same time, they started selling
Watermelons have risen in price this year
Note:
Strengthening the internationalization of economic relations between states and the deformation of the economy are possible causes of inflation, causing food prices to rise
(Reprint by Corvus review)

When We Are Just An Ostentation

If her lip was a sweet
I could crave to have it in mine always
After she stole my heart 
And set it on mountains
That springs water from depth.

Love sometimes looks like flower
While sometimes; the black ball in your eye.
That very day was another walk
Into heavens
But when everything seize
I rerely believe we're just an ostentation
Which is very otiose.


Reflections

Tales of past has match in
The present as I lingers into the simile
And antonyms of bliss
I snore out the hue of constellations
And held my pillow as the saviour
That dries up the streams on my face.

Can you decipher the joy gotten
From a crippled comic
Or that of the lurch in lurid?

A pellucid hope has made hay
For the future
Only if it will catch reflections.

Reborn 

Maybe I will be reborn as a basil. 
Being happy from my death 
One day my haters will have a party. 
Passing through alley with silence 
I hear all the gossips they tell. 
Now my poems will become orphan, 
Now I only live in my poems. 
But the world remains the same, 
Thousand years again it stays still. 
All the lies, all the fake faces, 
And ignorance in the gene. 
All the lips whisper one by one, 
Thanks God, I am far away. 
Blind souls never recover, 
I am not related to earth any more. 
The only thing tortures me is 
My days that I spent aimless. 
And incomplete writings of mine, 
My voice that paused on my throat as well. 
One day I lose my life, it is clear 
One day I will return to the Creator. 
Asking God to revive inside of me 
I will utter the name of my elder son. 

Sharipova Zuhro Sunnatovna (Zahro Shamsiyya) was born on April 9, 1969 in the Nurata district of the Navoi region. Her first poem was published in 1985 in the Gulhan magazine. Uzbek publishing houses published works in the journal "Sharq Yulduzi", in the literature and art of Uzbekistan - "Ma'rifat", in various regional and district newspapers. World almanacs in Canada, -2017 in Dubai WBA 2018 "Turkish poets of the world" (Buta 3) 2019, "Muhammad Yusuf izdoshlari" 2017 almanac. She published her book "Ismsiz tuigular"

The world is a jungle

The world is a jungle,
is what I was told.
This is what my father said to me
as long as I can remember:
Once a soldier,
always a soldier.

I didn’t know, when I was young,
that I was from a land of warriors.
How could I,
when I was surrounded by them
and that’s all I knew.
I hadn’t yet left
to see from the outside.

Looking back,
I might’ve been
the only little girl
obsessed with war movies,
playing toy soldiers,
held by an era.

Then, one day
I found a book
by a woman
who was the daughter
of a tunnel rat.
She knew what it was like
to have the war brought home to her.

You weren’t there, he said to me.
No, I didn’t have to be
because I lived through it with you
from the day I was born.

It wasn’t much talked about,
it was what was overheard —
all those generations,
the silent ones.

How could you speak
when there are no words
to describe horrors
and atrocities
that threaten
to destroy your soul.

It’s no wonder
the soul had to take flight
until it was called back in
gently coaxing, soothing,
but some never returned.

Soldier’s heart, battle fatigue,
shell-shock, ptsd, finally,
post traumatic growth.
Aren’t we all tired of it?
Hasn’t everyone suffered enough?

The ones who devoted their lives
to helping —
Gabor, Bessel and others,
The mother, the grandmother 
who prayed for all her sons. 

The relatives would whisper
but the children overheard —
He was never the same again,
they said.

Some wives woke up at night
to find their husbands
up in the trees outside,
somnambulant,
the survivors,
not knowing,
why they’d been spared
but feeling dead.

As a child, I thought
that all hearts were purple,
that all uncles had shrapnel.

Isn’t it fitting 
that this daughter,
before she even realized,
would find herself
in tropical jungles,
drawn to them, in love with them,
a full circle of sorts,
but drawn with love,
a different kind of mission.

and along the way,
after a very long time,
she was surrounded by warriors again,
still too young to realize
and recognize
how familiar it all was.

It wasn’t sought out
yet somehow
the past alive and well,
never even really past,
as Faulkner wrote.

Where are the landmines?
they’d ask.
Yet this was a different battlefield.
It saddened me,
weren’t we supposed to be
in this together,
in harmony?

It became apparent that
these were all lessons,
they were all lessons.
It was all learning,
to witness, observe,
to experience.

I was told
that I was a soldier,
that I marched when I walked.

I’d like to say,
that this part of me died
and is long gone.

Some say
that heaven and earth are right here
on this very earthly plane. 

The long journey to Hades,
to the underworld,
full of archetypes 
as the mythology describes,
is an accurate portrayal
of the parts of us that
go to war within oneself —
That die,
That shed,
mimicking nature
to be transformed. 

It is said,
that when you heal yourself,
you heal seven generations back
and seven generations forward.

That is my practice,
That is my practice.
Every day,
every moment,
I am my own medicine.
You are your own medicine.

I now plant gardens,
not quite in the jungle
but close enough.

I build bridges
that connect
different people, languages and cultures,
a place to truly come home,
to return home
to my roots,
to my origins,
to my body
and to my heart.

Longing letter

I took a step towards you again,
Hopes for the eternal springs.
I have a longing letter in my hand
Endless heart-wrenching writings.

I took a step towards you again,
I had to send my letter a long time ago.
A grassy suspicion scratches my heart
Missing does not give peace for some reason?

I take one step towards you,
Endless thoughts fall like rain.
What about U? There are thousands of you who are silent
The hearts are filled with hope.

I took a step towards you again,
There are empty rooms in my heart.
This is a longing note full of pain and lamentation,
I know you have those pictures in your mind.

I take a step towards you every day...

✍ Dilnurabonu Vaisova
Student of Bukhara state university

Poetry in the Clouds

The secret poetry of rain makes melody in the folds of clouds 
The continuous flow of fountains painted on the mountains 
Veiled nature's drunken invitation 
 At this time, who will tie the mind floating in the air? 

The reflection of the heart running in the raindrops
 Flowers' fragrance walks on a loose path 
Like a bird that has lost its bond, it does not return to its nest 
Can't you find love in the crowd of people?

A manuscript of a poem swirling in the breeze
 The notes of love float in the voice of the sky
 I extended both hands to the water of the horizon line 
The mind just runs on the pull of who knows who.