MY NAME IS UZBEKISTAN
I feel sorry for my motherland:
Where everyone – government or private –
Waits for the order of one voice
to breathe,
Where youth draw the picture of a plane,
Where women and men
in the crowded daily labor market
seek for employers
to earn their piece of bread,
Where people discuss
house construction, short socks
and pompous weddings,
Where creative minds are half dead,
Where there isn’t any international
poetry festival,
artist residency
or PEN,
Where deputies, mayors and the rest
Are caught over
bribery and lust
by Mr Truth who also reports
to the same one voice:
The deadlock.
You might say it’s everywhere like that
but I am not everywhere
My soul resides and my tomb will be here.
I play with the words:
I wish it were not Ooze
It were Big,
It embraced a Ton of Kisses –
Ooze-big-kiss-ton!
After all –
My name is rich
My name is Uzbekistan
and I wish I never felt sorry for myself!
