The ship of the moon raised its sails
It went towards the constellation star
At that moment, a poet shrugs his shoulders
He began to write a series of poems
Spruce branches bent
It showed respect to everyone
The poet poured himself into the poem
The winds danced
The elegant lawns were swaying
They were having fun whispering
They would say to each other:
"I wish the poet would say his poem"
But the poet was still silent
He closes his eyes and shakes his head
To the black cloud that roamed the sky
He sometimes frowns
Like it inspired him
A brook flowed beside him
The poet's thoughts roamed the world
In the bosom of the blue sea
The poet plucked words from his heart
The world could not bear it
The morning began to shine suddenly
The sun came out of the poem

Author: Umid Qodir. Young Uzbek poet. 
Translator: Nigora Muhammad

A FLOWER THAT FALLS TO HELL

 In this story, I want to tell how a young bride really lives in life. All I write are events that happen in life. The events are told in the native language of the hero of the work. I hope you can draw your own conclusions from this story:

 "I, daughter of Komila Husan (name changed), was born in 2000 in the city of Urganch, Khorezm region. My dreams were one world. When I graduated from college and was just getting ready to study at a higher education institution, suitors started pouring into our house.
 One of the suitors was my mother's relative. Mom and Dad:

 - Our daughter is still young, we want to educate her. Despite the fact that it is too early for her to get married, my mother's relative continued to come.

 Then he visited my grandfather and grandmother again and again. Then my grandfather and grandmother called my mother and father:
 - Come on, what did you decide? - they said.
 Among the relatives who came, there was my mother's uncle and a new one. My mother is:

 - What to do if I don't know... What do you say? he said.
 - They are our relatives, bad people do not eat. Decide for yourselves, there is a fire with your uncle in the middle. "We believe them," said my grandfather.

  That's all, our wedding took place on July 10, 2020. After the wedding, I felt that my dreams were shattered. We did not live well for a single day. My husband started abusing me the day after the wedding.
 Thinking that this is how life will be, I lived for a while without telling my parents. During this period, I found out that I was pregnant. Even though my husband knew that I was pregnant, he continued to abuse me. He did not call my parents or relatives.

 If you live with me, you will lose contact with your relatives. When my mother or my brother called, he would raise his voice and hide beside me. After I finished talking, he would have a big fight.
 When my mother came home to visit my husband, even though he was at work, he quickly found the news and called:

 - Don't sit next to your moon! He will talk to you! - he was tormenting.
 He shot my mother-in-law with his mother. I left his food and left. I didn't know how to convey my inner pain to my son. In the end, I couldn't bear these oppressions, and I tried to convey to my son how I was living my life through a letter.

 What kind of life is this, what kind of time is this, even though I am a young bride, I have no problems left. My husband used to come home from work and punish me by making me stand in the corner of our room until morning, despite my pregnancy.

 My mother-in-law and father-in-law were also oppressive. My mother-in-law immediately called my husband and called me when I said that I would take a break from my work. My mother-in-law would go to work depending on when her son came home from work. At the same time, he treated me badly.

 My mother-in-law and father-in-law have a lot to contribute to our miserable life. There was not a single day that I was not beaten. I missed my grandfather, my grandmother, my sister, my brother, and my relatives so much that I couldn't even make a phone call to anyone.
  I lived in longing. Meanwhile, our daughter was born.
 "We had a child, now our life will follow," I thought. But my husband and mother-in-law continued to oppress. Every day I pray to God, cry and ask for help.

 - Oh God, give justice to my husband, my mother-in-law, my father-in-law! May our life be good, I pray. I want to convey this pain in my heart to everyone.
 - When marrying your daughter, give her all the money. Iloya, don't let the days that happened to me happen to other girls.

 I used to convey these things to my mother through a letter. Mom and Dad:
 - Be patient, my daughter! They say that the bottom of patience is yellow gold. "Everything will be fine," they said. I don't know how much longer I can endure this oppression. I pray to God.

 I was very happy when my daughter was born. I felt a mother's love when I held her in my arms. I thought that our lives would be traced after he was born. I have made a mistake. Have you ever seen such cruelty? They didn't even let me see my little girl while living under the same roof. My daughter was deprived of breast milk. He feeds with additional milk, but now he does not drink breast milk. Drinks only extra milk.

 I miss my daughter. My heart bleeds when she cries. My mother-in-law does not give my child to me, but takes her with her. And I miss my little girl without sleeping.
 On the one hand, my husband's oppression, and on the other hand, my mother-in-law's suffering, which she is not giving me my daughter, have killed my hope to live in life..."

 At Komila's request, I wrote down this story. So that, after hearing about this incident, the parents would not be indifferent to the decision of their fate.

***
Why do people die as volume and not as emptiness? Why doesn't your dead body disappear when you're gone?

Why does the cemetery boast of its crosses and flowers cannot live without a mourning ribbon?

Agony is a very simple word. The word death is an even simpler word. It is better to remain silent like proud trees. It is better to drink silence like birds. It's better to move through the air like words. It's better not to live in a cage.

On a cast-iron evening, death knocked on the bird's temple with metallic softness instead of fingers.

The night never ends anywhere. There are only two of us: me and death. I am always alone. Conscious death does not exist: however, as well as conscious life.

***
Baby rabbits breathe without air
Baby rabbits don't breathe without their mother
Baby rabbits don't breathe when separated from their mother

Our banner is a torn uterus and a black vagina
Our anthem is dresses for daughters and guns for sons
Our home is death temporarily passing by
Our home is grass our home is bloody glass

Sour cream animals freeze outside the belly
Tin animals freeze without feeling warm
Each of us is a rabbit driven into a cage of life

***
the cast-iron frogs 
in the wooden pond hardened at the
beginning of winter

***
the green wall of the garden 
is thrown open

sick hands reach 
for the dead foliage

***
the forest is silence for the deaf
the forest is a cry for the wild
winter comes for everyone the same

***
the hand of the tree trembles in the wind
autumn will not give alms to anyone

no one was born in the cemetery except grass

***
the staircase on which the baby goes to the coffin constantly staggers

who will fire the tax on air and thoughts?
when the lights are off, we swallow black snowflakes

the child approaches his parents and whispers like a baby from the icon
no one will rise again nobody

***
rabbits knock on the heart
knock knock knock it's a carpenter

a coffin appears from under the table
we are all born stolen

scarabs of minutes are bursting at the seams
crunchy leaves sigh underfoot

what should we do?

***
gray sky peeking through the windows
if autumn were a person
she would hang herself

***
Saliva of time
The future is a spit

***
butterflies without a net
trees without rustling
summer is the song of calm

***
satiated water drips from the sky
autumn bison dissolves in falling leaves

***
remnants of sweat on the lips
a kiss is a bodily thirst
summer licks us with boiling water

***
spring thunder has receded
morning shelling began

***
display case with pork chop
refrigerator with human meat
long-awaited meet

***
nothing belongs to man 
except old age

autumn oak tree boasts 
fallen leaves

Reprint by Coalition for digital narratives

***
the poet is a lamb drinking water
the wolf is a poem that eats us

poems drown with us in sugar water
the river of time moves towards uncertainty

Reprint by Setu

***
the dead hare is forever
related to the grass

snow covers everything
with a blanket

Reprint by Setu

***
for the first and last time
I’m dying and you still don’t love me

the city is divided into two parts:

in the first part you kiss lovers and hang out with friends
in the second part there is a cemetery

Reprint by Setu

SHOULDERS THAT LIFT ME UP

The icy breeze of the morning hitting my face and the pouring rain outside prompted me to get up. I opened my eyes to find out where the cold was coming from: the window was left open. I was thinking for a while, then I remembered that I had to go to school, so I jumped up. After hastily eating breakfast, Ayam took out my white boots, which I brought from the market with my father last week.

- It's cold outside, the streets are muddy. Dress warmer, he said. And I:
"No, no, it's going to get dirty, I'll go in my shoes," I protested. But inside I wanted to wear my boots and praise them to my friends. At that moment, my grandmother told my father:

- My son, if not, take my grandson to the asphalt road.
Dad gestured as if to say "let's go" and we went out together. Then my father bent down, and I slowly climbed out behind him. As we walked down the muddy street, I kept my eyes on my white boots as I hugged my father's neck.

I still remember the traces left by my father on the October rain and muddy street that day. I will never forget the love of my mountain that day...

You are not telling me!

Is your heart broken,
 Why don't you go back?
What now, am I grown
 Up, you don't tell me alla?

Did I suffer at night? 
You don't get up early anymore?
 Did I scratch your insides,
 You're not telling me?

I didn't hold my tongue, 
Are you listening to others?
 Didn't I know your value,
You don't tell me?

I didn't notice how you are,
 But you are asking about my condition? 
Have I not disturbed your heart 
You do not tell me?

Ilhomova Mokhichehra is a 7th grade student of general secondary school No. 9, Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

toshpulatovazimjon274@gmail.com

Talented Uzbek girl

Mahmudjonova Zahroxon is one of talented girls of Uzbekistan. She was born on November 14, 2006 in Almazor district of Tashkent city. Nationality is Uzbek. Art direction – field of flute. In 2016, She was awarded with a 2nd degree Diploma at the “Zolotoy Fenix” international competition held in St. Petersburg, Russia. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the essay competition dedicated to the 580th birthday of Mir Alisher Navoi. In 2021, she was awarded the “Praise Label” for her excellent studies and exemplary behavior. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma at the International competition “Rainbow art’s” held in the city of Karaganda, Republic of Kazakhstan. In 2021, she was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma in the “Smart Girls” competition. In 2021, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma at the “Snejnyy Bars” International Competition held in Moscow.

 In Tashkent (ensemble)she  was awarded with the Grand Prix. In 2023, she was awarded with the 1st degree Diploma at the international competition “Melody leto” held in Tashkent. In 2023, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the “Best Play Performance” competition held at the school level. She was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma at the 30th International Competition named after “A. Jubanov” held in Almaty, Kazakhstan, from October 30 to November 3, 2023

In 2023, she was awarded with the 1st degree Diploma at the international competition “Melody leto” held in Tashkent. In 2023, she was awarded the 1st degree Diploma in the “Best Play Performance” competition held at the school level. She was awarded the 2nd degree Diploma at the 30th International Competition named after “A. Jubanov” held in Almaty, Kazakhstan, from October 30 to November 3, 2023.

If take a pen in my hand,

if I start writing a poem,

My hand trembles when l draw you.

Grandfather Navoi,

the Sultan of the Ghazal estate,

the Gardener of Poetry,

the glory of the whole world.

You left us a legacy, epics of Khamsa

We learn by reading,

We will be like Navoi.

Azimova Munisa, a pupil of the 7th class of the 20th school of Bukhara City. More about historical Uzbek poet and linguist Alisher Navoiy.