The hymn of the homeland in the hearts

Soibjonova Mohinsa, a student of the 1st general education school of the Kurgantepa district of Andijan region 

Annotation: This article discusses how love for the homeland awakens high feelings in the human heart, how these feelings are passed on from generation to generation, enriching the spiritual wealth of our people. The beauty of the homeland, its historical heritage and faith in the future become an inexhaustible hymn in every heart. This hymn in the hearts is manifested not only in words, but also in deeds as a bright expression of loyalty to the homeland.

Keywords: Motherland, love, loyalty, hymn, heart, beauty, opportunities, historical places, heritage, future, pride, inspiration, feelings, country, values.

Introduction: Homeland is the birthplace of man, the cradle of his language and the most sacred feeling in the deepest corner of his heart. It is not only a geographical area, but also the center of our history, culture, and aspirations. Great scholars such as Abu Rayhan Beruni and Alisher Navoi emphasized that loving and preserving the homeland is the highest duty of a person.

Main part: Our people always add the word “mother” to the word homeland. Mother is the homeland. Because the homeland is like a mother. Therefore, the mother must be the homeland. The homeland is the greatest blessing, and the more we talk about it, the less we talk about it. Because the homeland is the place where our umbilical cord blood was shed.

It is not only the place where we were born, but also an important support for our entire life. Our great scholars have also expressed deep thoughts about this.

Alisher Navoi, on the other hand, said, “Whoever is separated from his homeland, will not reach the homeland,” and tried to feel the pain of separation from his homeland and the value of the country. After our homeland gained independence, many opportunities were created in our country for future generations, not only for the younger generations, but for all people. First of all, after independence, our Islamic values were restored. People could freely pray, fast, and, if they wanted, go on the Hajj pilgrimage. This is evidence of the restoration of our scientific values. In addition, large investments are being made for the young future generation and extensive conditions for education are being created. Our Uzbekistan is flourishing. Nowadays, tourists from different countries are also visiting our country. They visit historical places and express positive opinions about our country. Because historical structures built by our great thinkers for centuries have been preserved in our homeland. Of course, this is also one of our our values. After independence, our national anthem was adopted on December 10, 1992. After that, “The Anthem of the Motherland in the Hearts” began to sound. The anthem awakens in the human heart a feeling of love and loyalty to one’s Motherland, and most importantly, love for the country.

Conclusion: To summarize this article, they say that love for the motherland is not proven in words, but in deeds.

Therefore, each of us, while loving it, should protect it like the apple of our eye, cherish it, always be vigilant in the face of various harmful ideas and songs, and encourage each other to do the same. Only then will we find satisfaction from the Motherland. There is some wisdom in this satisfaction. I believe in the young future generations. They still achieve high results in science, sports, and all fields. I will also be the young generation of a bright future that will benefit my country! Until now, there have been those who have achieved these achievements with their own labor, and future generations will not stop seeking knowledge. After all, it is not for nothing that they say, “Seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave.” Abu Nasr Al-Farabi also emphasized the need for enlightenment and moral perfection for the prosperity of the country, saying, “A well-educated people sacrifice their lives for the welfare of their country.” We are also our homeland We must be ready to give our lives for it. I would also like to say that we live in a peaceful country where such conditions have been created. For this, first of all, we must be grateful. Let me be grateful that we live in such a peaceful and quiet homeland!

This article is dedicated to the 34th anniversary of our independence

List of used literature:

1. Alisher Navoi. Mahbub ul-qulub. Tashkent: Gafur Ghulom Publishing House, 1983.

2. Forabiy, Abu Nasr. Views of the people of Fozil city. Tashkent: Yangi asr avlod, 2009.

3. Karimov, I.A. The homeland is as sacred as a place of worship. Tashkent: Uzbekistan, 1996.

4 Khayrullayev, M. Spiritual heritage of the Uzbek people. Tashkent: Fan, 1994.

Tears Behind the Makeup

Do you think clowns also have problems and pain of their own? Do they cry at night like we do? Just like a coin has two sides, I believe people think differently about this. Some say, “Of course, they do — after all, they are human too,” while others might say, “Why would they? They make us smile, so they probably don’t have any pain or problems.”

From my point of view, I believe that clowns may have even more pain than we do, yet they are braver than us. Why, you ask? The reason is simple. We only carry our own pain and problems (sometimes those of our close ones or relatives). But what about them? We all know that psychologists and doctors feel their patients’ pain and live with it as if it were their own.

Clowns also have patients — they are just called differently: “the audience.” Clowns heal even more people than doctors and psychologists; or rather, they prevent people from getting sick. Whether we want it or not, when we see them, a smile appears on our faces. And every smile is a step toward a healthier life.

Let me tell you a story.

One day, a patient came to see a doctor. The doctor asked him,

“Please tell me, what is bothering you? What are your complaints?”

The patient replied,

“Doctor, I feel unwell. I can’t enjoy life anymore. I suffer because I can’t forget my pain. I’ve lost my appetite — I can’t even swallow a piece of bread. Images of hungry, half-naked people don’t leave my mind. I can’t sleep until morning; I shiver with cold as if I’m living through their suffering. When I hear news about crimes, I feel as if I’m guilty too. Laughing? I’ve completely forgotten how to laugh. I don’t smile anymore, doctor. I can’t laugh. If you don’t help me, I’m afraid my condition will get worse.”

The doctor examined the patient carefully, placed a hand on his shoulder, led him to the window, pulled the curtain aside, and pointed toward the street. There was a circus poster with a clown’s picture on it.

“My dear,” the doctor said, “do you see that clown? Every evening he puts on a wonderful performance. I advise you to go and watch it. You’ll forget all your suffering, laugh freely, and leave your pain behind. Your heart will feel light, and there will be nothing left of your illness.”

The patient lowered his head, sighed deeply, and said quietly:

“Doctor… that clown is me.”

Mutaliyeva Umriniso Rahimjon’s daughter was born on 14.01.2011 and currently lives in the Tashkent region of Uzbekistan. Umriniso is a proud model of behavior, intelligence and knowledge at school. She is interested in mathematics, Russian, and English and is studying them. She has also participated in science Olympiads and won honorable places. Umriniso is also engaged in creativity. Her creative works have been published in prestigious American magazines and she has been volunteering for several organizations. In her free time, Umriniso also plays tennis, checkers, reads books, and draws. She has many goals and she is taking steps towards them.

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Rear Window Anxiety Dream

We’ve been watching the unlikely 

couple a floor below us across an

alley in the city we are living in.

She is extremely well dressed and 

classy looking while he lies around

all day in filthy sweatpants and sports

team shirts drinking beer straight 

from the can while watching Classic

sporting events on ESPN as if they might

be live ones, rooting hard for teams

that have already lost and half

the players are traded, injured or dead.

He is especially exercised when he watches

prize fights that happened in the middle of 

the twentieth century. We’d like to tell him

to just look up the results on Google and save

himself all the aggravation that goes into

watching these guys pound the living shit 

out of each other, but what would

be the fun in that? I wonder if he tries

to place bets on the outcome of these matches

as he seems to be the kind of guy who will

bet on anything like how many red cars will 

drive past the apartment building in the next

hour. My wife says that’s ridiculous but I assure

you, a lot of money can be lost that way and

probably is. Not his money, of course. 

Which may account for all the yelling that 

goes on over there when the woman comes 

home after work. That and the fact their two kids

have been neglected, especially the younger

of the two, a boy, who seems to be covered head

to toe in some kind of grimy mess. The older

child, a girl, is six or so and misses most of

the action at a private school but still senses

the tension between her parents but knows it

is useless to intervene.

My wife speculates he might be the kind of

guy who would have access to the gun we need

for the assassination. I am against approaching 

him but she does anyway. While he thinks about

scoring one for us, she offers to take his kids

swimming at the central park lake. He says fine

and off they go. A while later they come back

but the boy is missing. “Where is Humpy?”

the father asks and the daughter says, “Oh, he

drowned. I tried to save him but it

was too late.” The father freaks out but 

the wife is unconcerned. Uses the opportunity

to grab the clicker and change the station.

Apparently, It’s all she has been thinking 

about for years.  

The father is inconsolable. 

The wife remains unconcerned, watching 

her shows. I say to my wife, “Maybe we 

misjudged those two.” My wife doesn’t seem

to care one way or another now that she 

has scored the assassination gun.

Reconnecting with an Old College Friend Anxiety Dream

All my attempts to reach

my college friend Bernard

were unsuccessful until

I found a number for a camp

North of Utica that only existed

in previous dreams.  I thought it was odd

that there was a phone listed for that camp

as it was too remote to have service.

Somehow, I reached him through a 

phone referral at a pay-by-the night-

hostel in Buffalo run by the Paris 

Review. Bernard was insistent we

meet him right away as they were

after him and what he had to tell me

was Top Secret.  I interpreted his

paranoia to his job working as a T agent 

even if had left that job over thirty years ago, 

Top Secret stuff never  goes out of style.  

Despite my skepticism about the urgency, 

I told him we’d be there as soon as we could 

which was likely to be  many hours from now 

as we were over  half a state away. 

Somehow, we made it to the Paris Review Hostel 

in record time, a little under an hour, and the helpful

desk clerk who looked like, and sounded 

like a clone of Alan Cumming, told us

he’d already left which I thought was 

unlikely as Bernard was missing a leg

and he hadn’t taken his customized

wheelchair.  

Since we were hungry, we decided to

check out Buffalo’s answer to Quincy Market

which was much shabbier and had way fewer

option than the one in Boston. The only

place that had anything remotely edible

was a beef place where we were turned away 

for service as we hadn’t ordered ahead of time.

Just as we were about to give up hope of

finding anything there was Bernard sitting

in a modified shopping cart. “Hurry,”

Bernard insisted, “we have to hurry before

everything closes.” Though it was only

One in the afternoon. I thought

stuff really closes early in Buffalo.

“Look,” Bernard said, in between bites of

a mixed deli meat hero, ”you are the only 

one I can trust to write this story.”

And it was a long story. Two heroes worth, 

at least, and he was still talking.

I didn’t see any way I was going to be able

to recreate what he was telling me as

I didn’t have anything to write on and my phone’s

battery was out of charge.  The more he talked,

the more I was worried, “Does this mean

they would be after me too?”

Laurie Anderson Anxiety Dream

“Everyone in the island was someone from TV

And everyone was saying, ‘Look at me, Look at me!’

Language is a virus.”

Maybe she was in my thoughts after

being signed up to follow her on Facebook 

or just because we were playing Home 

of the Brave, regardless, a mutual friend

assured them that I could access Boer War

funeral music for the requiem she was writing

celebrating a fallen hero.  Despite assuring 

everyone, I had no idea about anything to do

with the Boers, I was one of the wedding party

in rural Mercersburg, Pa, that was convening

in the cellar of the former president of

the prep school’s home. Laurie was about to 

marry a much younger, obnoxious dude the best

mam couldn’t stand and was warning her against.

I’m not sure why she valued my opinion as we’d

never met, but there I was under the asbestos 

wrapped steam heat pipes advising her against

the wedding. Trying to be diplomatic, I said

the prevailing opinion of the guy was that he 

was a creepy, obnoxious, self-involved, two-

faced narcissist but except for that everyone 

liked him.  The best man, who was now the groom,

concurred and it seemed as if the wedding was 

back on only with a different configuration of 

guests and participants. But first, we had to clean up

the grape juice the kids had spilled into the interior

of the hero’s coffin despite my warning them

to stay a good distance away. Luckily there was 

no body inside. Then we had to worry about 

Laurie’s potentially fatal operation on her lower 

extremities.  Everyone but the groom was in 

low spirits but he assured us all that everything 

would be fine now that we had dispensed 

with the inappropriate suitor. I didn’t think so. 

He was carried a gun.

Bardo State Anxiety Dream

I was disembodied in a Bardo

State not unlike the transition way station

in the Japanese movie, After Life.

Instead of being able to choose

a moment in time of extreme

happiness to spend eternity with,

I was about to be transmogrified

into a four-legged furry creature to be

named later. I asked one of the Eternal

Estate Angels if I could choose which

animal and they said, “No.” Empathically.

I asked the angel, who looked like an usher

at a louche movie theater, if I could talk

to someone in management but he assured me

it would be a waste of time.  

“Once it’s  decided, that’s it. No arguments.”

“So, who are these people?”

“The higher ups. Look, don’t worry about it.

It will seem strange at first but after awhile

it will seem normal and everything will be cool.”

While I was waiting for my animal to be

conceived, I floated around for a while, haunting

the places and the people I used to live with. 

Back in the waiting room, I watched a new cohort

of the recently deceased escorted into the Bardo

waiting area. Despite feeling free and easy like

a somnambulist in a waking dream, the constant

influx of new arrivals started to feel threatening

as if an overcrowding situation was inevitable.

I wandered down a shabby, white tile subway

station tunnel looking for a way out but all I could

find was a corridor of doors, all of them locked.

Einstein on the Beach Reconsidered:

a tone poem in five movements

1-

Remember walking in the sand listening

to the Shangri Las postulating theorems 

to the sea gulls, to the shore birds following

the patterns left behind in sand by the untied

laces of Albert’s red Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops

as if what was revealed there contained all

the answers to eternal riddles the avian species

have considered for eons.

2-

Nearby, on the lifeguard stands, counter-tenors

are practicing, their voices eliciting a cacophony

of disharmony that blends with the shrieking

of gulls and the drumming of the garbage men 

pounding the last remaining refuse from trash

cans lining the beach.

3-

A rhythmic chanting from the boardwalk is

a choral equivalent of surf music provided by

untrained voices of both sexes intoxicated

by experimental chemicals and malt liquor

Tall Boys left unattended by careless chaperones

attached to the Keep Kids Off Drugs annual dance.

4-

The unexpected introduction of air horns,

police sirens and spinning emergency lights

interrupts the final repetitive instrumental lines

as illegal bonfires begin to illuminate a crowded stage.

5-

In the vacuum created by arbitrary motion, 

gray matter and noise, the beach becomes 

a desert and the philosopher a stone.

Everything is Dead

‎Even in a city where there is no clock, time walks

‎The sun melts and night falls in the womb of time

‎Time learned to walk, long before the clock was born

‎You were born before it

‎And I was born before you

‎Our love was born even earlier.

‎

‎I wanted to touch the language of your fingers

‎Billions of years ago, waiting for my fingers

‎The limit of distance was infinite determination

‎I haven’t touched you yet

‎I’m running like a cloud

‎I’ve written so many poems by borrowing the blood of the sun

‎I have written miles upon miles of poetry in your eyes

‎My gaze is not tired

‎Everything is dead in the house of the dead

‎Not a single poem has found the address of your heart.

‎

Speaking Now

Speaking now

a ringing in my ears

almost a singing

I heard when I was young

looking out my window then

at night from my bed

stars so distant

cold and watching me

feeling alike

no words 

only a sense of knowing

their world

and my world as a child

a song unfinished

never rehearsed

but coming back

hoping

we share the end.

Ecstasy

The long moon ride

can’t sleep

the ecstasy above

out in the vacant field

I catch hold

not sure how

but I’m hanging on

upward and gliding

dreamlike

in awe

breathing forever

the face of earth within.

The Race

Ran the race

and didn’t know how

well I’d done

until the words came out

on the glow screen of now

bright as sunlight at night

telling me all the secrets

in one pop of sight

one final heartbeat in time.

Bubble

You never understood me

loving you in my bubble

floating over every second

of us

in our lifetime of love

loving everyone and all

like the poets we are.

PAPER PLANET

Paper planet unpinned on something glassy 

also pink ambulance

table wipe emergency dressed candy

  square game was force of hospital 

 fluid zigzag elements felt mannerism

 repeated hunt near ring letters 

 fit molars the way sleep soon little would

one accomplice looked

 and the issue flow and paper 

 hand panic for quash of some dropped

 questions wanted eyes of Halloween

amalgamated snakes forever outlines milk 

 that house floating 

your automatic sleep stampede built on the bifocal 

Fractal gladiator carries lugubrious toy rifles 

 A coffee is a squares pipes   

the registering girl flowed streaming wet

rain in the looped army 

 oceans slowly open child

 glittering morphological lining 

  recorder kept single pudding 

palm world powers narcissist module 

then stuck dripping steamed gulf

 wooden dress could hyphenate 

swift blackness the transverse thin for water

circles surged dactyl our dead

 cars solids curtains tiny jaguars wanted another explosives

vast software guns arranged someone to the stretched

PERISCOPE  

She bumped red suns 

crackling white galactic 

clicking engines luminous 

orange car slammed ink animals 

sonorous notifier flaming griffin 

simple hand put down porcelain 

tingling troops tumbling 

The bright inter-spaced creatures 

engravings lengthen estuary  

tanks ensconce over echo kill 

printed lance the white words 

leather waterfalls of tranquil light 

translucent faded statues 

mysterious Indian rays  

The few people of ice gods 

crazy hyperborean troops   

darkened day package 

resistant sailor tripped  

office burns the air   

run in the fine summer Data 

imperial curtains shook the machine  

The lamp her curling clerks 

zinc encircled candle furry with anesthetize threshold 

the whipper shut moons 

reflection in pinball  

dressed eye and clouds 

but static torch falling    

plastic antique face hid guns

LINCOLN LOOP

A geometrical design drifted past 

disconnected hands twinkle

a fold in the flows held a glassine eye 

facsimiles of dead space in the disorganized area 

in blue time desolation thread broke 

a complex flow disconnected the intruding lines

design accident instar horizon 

automatic movements of the tiny area

ballerina knew the suspected man 

Burning specters like thought wings

a lake that glitters with radioactive fluorescence 

something strained almost to breaking

ashes frayed like threads of fabric

the darkness depressed child propellant 

blotted minds with metabolic radiocarbon

Sumerians slide down glistening icicles 

tropical bomb suddenly formed fish channel

gnomic trouser that first discovered life

THE PROXY INTELLIGENCE

Candied terabyte of meson water 

rubbed a couple of skies with

xenon supply paper

submerged thickness of brownstone 

partially pulling regrettable friends 

Osiris piloted 3 musketeers 

scooped bronze hospital ship with frozen stamp

Dixie hook looks with lucrative sugar 

Mars girls stay with area 56 in underwater fur 

tank curves in noteworthy knees

ultraviolet rainbows over a microwave sea

dispenser of strangeness strikes strontium

sea breakfast gives an inch 

analgesic reprisal of quick colonnade 

our Goliath buildup uses his plush nightlife 

accidentally flattens bobcat

Didn’t rinse sylphs with metallic blood 

opening calibration out of vortex aggregate 

specters appear in the polar ring 

knight clamps nettle out of cubed windows

capacitor crowns tactless morphology  

French flags wash beautiful scrimshaw 

foobar needs camerawork structures

waterfalls on pirate ship pumping high 

FURRY CHILDREN

Someones touch electrified the visiplates 

blood and bone only with eyes of iron 

this but sparkles and hovers

the fire banister became Egyptian

king of sleep in concession stand

geometric anthem sometimes covers sky

attached flare of sizzling ripples 

commandos pierce narrow blind 

hands drift in darkness

milky teeth traps tank beneath polar bears

there parted somewhere heroes  

Machine looking into small fingerprints 

closed uniformity glasses 

filing furry children from willows Garbo

small earth fell over the night rays of birds

Little John resplendent in the tiny tools of time

later doom to atoms behind the kangaroo 

green against this studded thunder 

water patiently wears the edge

stopped dreaming fishes  

thought seeps into the very spaces between 

pressure zone conceals enormous carved gargoyles  

Gregory Wallace has been making art of various kinds for at least 50 years. He was active in the mail art scene in the 80s and participated in international mail art exhibits and correspondence. Mr. Wallace was a founding editor of Oblivion magazine and has published several books of poetry including The Girl With Seven Hands, The Return of the Cyclades, and Exile and Kingdom Come. His artistic activity encompasses poetry, collage, sculpture, assemblage, photography and painting. His work has appeared in Typo, BlazeVox, #Ranger, Synchronized Chaos, and God’s Cruel Joke.