MIRPULAT MIRZO, poet, translator, editor of the magazine “World literature”. He published many books of translation, translated works from world literature into Uzbek. Lives in Tashkent, capital of Uzbekistan.
I value very much this sacred way,
That always calls me to my mother’s face.
It’s esteemed all-round and is gay,
Even mountains in outlying base.
My breast is petted by the endless hill,
I amazing glance to broad fields.
Heart is soaked up in splendid will,
With this sight it always beauty feels.
I search a secret meaning of the world
And pass the mountains with deep in thought.
Asking if my duties I performed
All day long I with myself consort.
Every time these ways and view that thrilling
Being close clean and sort my feeling.
STORM
Storm emits a moan in the street,
Hits against the windows a wide chest.
As if wounded Hercules in it
Asks for mercy being so distressed.
Tempest groans in great agony,
Even trembles swarthy sky from wail.
Sometimes it starts to rub against many
Naked branches of big trees with fail.
It feels nervous and sheds bitter tear –
Seeks refuge but doesn’t help this roam.
None allows it coming in for fear,
Maybe because it’s a noisy storm.
