Sky’s tears

Ruined and broken

Land of Palestine

Day and night

Under the bombs.

Blood flows like a river

Poisoned life of people

Dying children, old men

Dying fathers, mothers and sons.

Families are being destroyed

Houses, walls are being crumled

Nature is being terrified.

But, the world is silent

The Mankind is silent

The God is silent.

Maybe cries only the sky

Because of the cruelty of humanity

Carrying a complaint against them

Or being angry at their silence.

Maybe cries only the sky

Who caught in deep shock

Whispering in the company of Earth

Turning whose tears into the rain.

Maybe cries only the sky

For being not able  to understand 

In spite of the endless thoughts:

Why so bloodily killing each other 

Brothers who in one land were born. 

А Letter to Marquez

Teacher,

I pray for your homeland!

Now there reigns

Chaos, turmoil, bloodshed.

A threat to peace grows

Human rights are being destroyed

Justice disappeared.

Your Macondo weeps

Where you’re safe and comfortable

Lived in past with a brunette Mercedes.

Where you wrote the fabulous Buendia family

And described the formidable Patriarch.

Your Makondo weeps

Where you breathed the fresh air

Opening the window in the early morning 

Waiting for the sun on the windowsill

With a cup of coffee in your hand.

You Macondo weeps Master

Where you sang a serenade

Cheerfully with a smile on your lips.

Danced the tango, played  tirelessly

With a glass of bitter tequila

Wearing a big branded hat.

Cortazar’s tomb

The great one`s ashes rest  here

In the cemetery of vain Paris.

Among strangers a lonely tomb

As if staring into the horizon sadly.

From  here impossible it is

To see kindly land of Argentine

The homeland where he was born

The homeland where was spent 

His childhood and adolescence.

No, you can not see it, 

Can not see it at all, painful tomb

It`s as obvious as

Two and two is equal to four.

But, a stubborn grave

Does not want to admit it

And it`s capricious claiming

To the gray clouds

To a half-naked trees

That beyond the horizon shines 

The radiant smile of the motherland.

The Spring

I like the autumn

I like the golden look of it

I like the smell of the leaves

The cold rains with a sour taste

And thick mists with a sad sigh.

Now it is springtime outside

It rustles as if dancing

A soft wind blows from the south

Passerby pass with a smile on their faces

The abricos tree is blooming madly.

I sit in front of the window like this:

From morning till evening serenely

With a cough on my throat

With a pain in my stomach

With a cup of hot coffee

And a book by Garsia Marquez in my hands.

Sometimes I glance longingly

To nature, to people,  to everyone

And mutter “ oh, where are you my autumn?”

But instead of answer

The cheerful spring again 

Makes a rustling noise there.

Life without principle

I live without principle

Without any instructions whatsoever

Without goddamn idols

Without authorities like God.

My life is so simple:

I get up in the early morning

Run for losing the weight

Taking up boxing in the yard

With an uncomfortably hanging bag.

Then I dress reluctantly before breakfast

And in it I drink hot tea or coffee

Enjoying it fleetingly by closing eyes.

Then with an old-fashioned diplomat 

I rush off to a bloody job

That tires me out

That poisons my soul 

That makes me a painful puppet.

Also in evening without any change

Do like what I did in the morning

Run for losing the weight

Taking up boxing in the yard

And do not forget about tea or coffee.

The same…

Only one change

Before going to bed

I reluctantly get undress instead of dressing.

CORTAZAR`S  TOMB

The great one`s ashes rest  here

In the cemetery of vain Paris.

Among strangers a lonely tomb

As if staring into the horizon sadly.

From  here impossible it is

To see kindly land of Argentine

The homeland where he was born

The homeland where was spent 

His childhood and adolescence.

No, you can not see it, 

Can not see it at all, painful tomb

It`s as obvious as

Two and two is equal to four.

But, a stubborn grave

Does not want to admit it

And it`s capricious claiming

To the gray clouds

To a half-naked trees

That beyond the horizon shines 

The radiant smile of the motherland.

About the author

Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 year in Marghilan city of Uzbekistan. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic institute in 2005 year. His works are more often published in the republican inside presses. He mainly writes stories and essays. His first book “ The Autumn’s symphony”was published in 2020 year. He is one of the winners of the national literary contest “My Pearl region” in the direction of prose. He was published in such Russian and Ukraine network magazines as “Camerton”, “Topos”, “Autograph”. Besides, his stories were published in the literary magazines and websites of Kazahstan , USA, Serbia, Montenegro, Turkey, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia, Germany, Greece, China, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Argentine, Spain, Italy, Bolivia, Costa Rica, Romania, India, Poland, Guatemala, Israel, Belgium Indonezia , Iraq, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Albania, Colombia and  Nicaragua.