The fugitive bonfires raise their
heads,
A period ignores the ancient lights.
With a gleam as if the pitiable hope,
Candles could not be modern
nevermore.
We’ve been exposed for a question,
Where we came from and where we would
go?
Even the tears appear on our
eyelashes every moment,
They could not be modern nevermore.
Pictures can be so beautiful but,
Someday an authenticity will be
known.
Those moments reminded us a soul,
That could not be modern nevermore.
Still increasing the mannerism of
malice,
That can destroy an immaculacy.
The means to enhance the sorrows in
the world,
Shortages could not be modern
nevermore.
The fallen leaves could return sooner
or later,
Wherever they are that left its green
land…
Turned yellow as if the sheet of a
soul,
Sorrows could not be modern
nevermore.
Shahodatbonu
Imomnazarova,
Uzbekistan
