Monday, May 1, 2023





March Eighth


Magpies are shouting in the street:

– A holiday is already on the threshold!

I think that mamuli

Give it to me on a joyful day.

Of all the different holidays,

I love the eighth of March.

The day is affectionate, gentle, beautiful,

It's with a little wind, not hot.

I'm happy – the day has come,

I'm worried: – What should I get?

On the street , I still decided,

Turn all the flowers into a bouquet.

Snowdrops and tulips,

For the most beloved mother.

I'm already cooking in advance,

For Mom, after all, so much effort.

I cooked the meat in a saucepan,

And I'm baking the cake now.

I'm studying perfectly, Mom

I will please you by working quickly.




It shone like the spring sun,

You looked like May.

Fed me, rejoiced,

She sang bye-bye songs.

I will not forget your image,

He is everywhere in my heart.

Raised and educated,

So that a man could live on earth.

You wished happiness, health,

Our house was from the storms of all the ark.

A child he is carefree,

And Mom is a guiding ray.

When was Mommy in the house,

Then there is comfort and beauty everywhere.

The character is calm and kind,

And the freshness around, cleanliness.

We could only make noise in arguments,

Who will look after Mom.

The universe, spin, dear,

We were raised by Mother Earth.

Mother is the happiness of family and home,

No soul can compare with her.

Like rays, gems,

Long live mothers in the world!


At Night I Dreamed Of My Mother


(Dedicated To The Blessing Of Mother Saadat)


My mother came to me at night, in a dream,

I got bored or for a conversation,

I was rosy, quite happy,

She blessed that the troubles would pass.

And I recognized the sound of her footsteps,

Sometimes I imagined her walking,

I missed the smell of handkerchiefs,

I tried to inhale the aroma of my native and best.

I saw my mother a little away from me –

She has been granted paradise in the afterlife,

There was a coral on her neck… Quietly

Shone with happiness given unselfishly.

And she came up, said: - I'm going to heaven,

Bless you, daughter, comb your hair

You're your curls, - leaving me a comb.

And hugged, then left... Is gone…

Perhaps this is the parting words of the "pen",

So that I can enter the mighty Pirin with songs?

She told me otherwise that it was time,

Enter the world of inviting words, but on the singing path…




ERALIEVA UMUTKAN POLOTOVNA: She was born on July 1968, 12 in the village of Kok-Zhar in the Nookat district of the Osh region of Kyrgyzstan. Poet, writer, publicist. Member of the National Union of Writers of the Kyrgyz Republic, the Union of Journalists of Kyrgyzstan, the Union of Writers of North America, the Eurasian Guild of Writers (London). Author of dozens of books.


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