Khorezm branch of uzbekistan writers union

 

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99 
WHITE MARBLE, BLACK MARBLE 
 
Translated by Nodira Azatova 
 
Spring doesn't begin from the down of walls lacking sun rays. Spring 
doesn't begin from sunny ditch shores. Spring begins from cemeteries. First 
grasses sprout next to elegiac domed tombs. Older crocuses ring their bells 
sorrowfully over the the default cemetery firstly. Early scarlet poppies bloom 
there at first. 
Who knows, perhaps it is the mercy that nature condescends to the spirit 
of deceased once in a year... Marble stones appear among the scarlet tulips 
as burning fires and lined up fleur-de-lis.
 
White marble, black marble, blue 
marble... "Mother, we remember you forever. Mother, you sacrificed your 
life for us, eh, umph, the fate separated us from you. Mother, your memory 
will eternally live in our hearts" 
White marble, black marble... I know how many tears drip into each 
letter of these words. Perhaps, they may be the truest words told by a human 
being in one‘s life. Only... every time when I read them, I think one thing 
only: "How good does the son who told these words from the depth of his 
heart and full of sorrow could satisfy the soul-wish of his mother? Didn't he 
forget to get a dress for his mother, when he bought the expensive coat for 
his wife? Didn't he forget to give just a small carpet as a present for his 
mother, when he filled his house up with foreign furniture? Didn't he forget 
to buy ordinary socks when he brought the atlas dress to his daughter as a 
birthday present and gave a bicycle to his son as a present? 
I do not know... However, I exactly can say a thing. Perhaps, if the God 
revives all spirits and all mothers return to life, anyway they would praise 
their children whether they gave love for them or not when they were alive. 
Mothers stay, remain as a mother even after their death.
Spring doesn't begin from the down of walls lacking sun rays. Spring 
doesn't begin from sunny ditch shores. Spring begins from there. No wonder, 
ringing crocuses and glowing tulips on the graves are the flowers presented 
for the children as a consoler by their mothers. 

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100 
ILTIJO 
Oyi, men keldim... Eshityapsizmi, oyi, men yana keldim... 
Qarang, oyi, tag‗in ko‗klam kirdi. Esingizdami, har yili bahor kirishi bilan 
sizni dalaga olib chiqardim. Siz charaqlagan oftobni, tiniq osmonni, ko‗m-ko‗k 
maysalarni ko‗rib quvonardingiz. Esingizdami, nevaralaringiz terib kelgan 
boychechaklarni ko‗zingizga surtib, «omonliq-somonliq» qilardingiz... 
Bugun... o‗zingizning ustingizdan boychechak o‗sib chiqibdi... Yo‗q, yo‗q, 
oyijon... Yig‘layotgamm yo‗q. Bilaman, men yig‘lasam, siz bezovte 
bo‗lasiz. Hozir... hozir o‗tib ketadi. Mana, bo‗ldi... 
Ertalab-chi, oyi yomg‘ir yog'di. Qattiq yomg‘ir yog‗di. Siz bahor yomg‗irini 
yaxshi ko‗rardingiz... , Keyin oftob chiqib ketdi. Qarang, oftob charaqlab 
yotibdi... Esingizdami, siz menga oftob to‗g‘risida cho‗pchak aytib bergan 
edingiz. O‗sha oftob charaqlab yotibdi... Ko‗ryapsizmi... 
Esingizdami, oyi, siz ukamga alla aytardingiz. Men allaning ohangiga mast 
bo‗lib uxlab qolardim. O‗sha beshikda men ham yotganman. Allangizdan men 
ham orom olganman. Nima qilay, oyi, men alla aytishni bilmayman. 
Qabringizni silab qo‗ysam orom olasizmi... Mana, oyijon, mana... Yo‗q, yo‗q, 
yig‘layotganim yo‗q. Hozir, hozir o‗tib ketadi. 
Esingizdami, oyi, siz bir marta, atigi bir marta, o‗shandayam hazillashib: 
«Meniyam kitob qilib yozsang-chi, o‗glim», degandingiz. Men: «Sizning 
nimangizni kitob qilaman, oyi?» degan edim. Xafa bo‗lmang, men hazillashgan 
edim. Mana, o‗sha kitob. Yo‗q, uni men yozganim yo‗q. Uni siz yozgansiz. 
Men uni qog'ozga tushirib, odamlarga tarqatdim, xolos. Men uni dunyodagi 
hamma onalar o‗qishini xohlayman. Bilaman, dunyodagi hamma onalar yaxshi. 
Shunday bo‗lsayam, ularning hammasi Sizga o‗xshashini xohlayman...