Ghazals by Siyovush Qodiriy (Uzbekistan)

Siyovush Qodiriy was born on July 3, 1991, in the beautiful village of Nilu, Surkhandarya region of the Republic of Uzbekistan, into the family of a teacher and poet, Abdubarot Qodiriy. From 2016 to 2021, he graduated from Termez State University with a degree in Tajik philology. Like his father, who is a creative artist, Siyovush too has chosen the honorable path of his compass. He began writing poetry, ghazals, mukhammas, dubaytis, and quatrains while still a student. The writings of this talented young man are regularly published in the newspapers “Sariosiyo”, “Khovar”, “Ovozii Tojik” and in the collective collection “Az Zarafshon to Surkhon”.

Ghazals

1

Without the teacher, the house of the nation cannot become pure,

Without the teacher, there is no progress on the path of art.

Woe to the one who forgets the service of the master,

Without the teacher, no seeker becomes learned and skilled.

An age struggles with ignorance — just look around,

Not a single moment in life is free from toil.

The teacher is always in service to the people and the homeland,

Yet never once has he sought a corner of seclusion.

Because he bestows knowledge, intellect, and skill upon others,

No one in the world has attained such nobility as the teacher.

They possess precious honor and a good name —

I wanted to proclaim it to the universe, but lacked the power.

I wished to create a new verse in their praise,

But I am incapable — my verses are not worthy of such service.

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2

Every thoughtless deed ends in difficulty,

A wise and learned person is shaped by education.

If the father is virtuous, his trace remains on the son,

Otherwise, that fine young man becomes lost and ignorant.

If a defective seed falls into the cultivated field,

That crop will grow with twice the flaw.

A king who, with wisdom, made his realm flourish —

If he lacks wisdom, his kingdom becomes ruin and falsehood.

“A wise enemy is better than a foolish friend,” they say,

Earth and water, once mixed, eventually become clay.

In youth, a person roars like a river,

When old age comes, he becomes a stone on the shore.

Whoever traverses the ups and downs of life,

Gradually, in the end, becomes a perfect man.

The garden of Paradise is the resting place of God’s beloved ones —

Not every heedless person gets there without good deeds.

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3

Nothing but error comes from the eye of the mob,

Shamelessness tears down the veil of honor.

The shirt protects the dignity of the body —

One should not imitate Europeans or Russians.

Drinking, short clothing, selling one’s body, and hypocrisy —

None of these have a place in faith for a dishonorable man.

Half-naked, enslaved to Western customs —

What difference remains between a slave and a spy?

Woe to those naked flirtations under the veil,

Some have trampled upon religion and traditions.

Even if adorned with delicate wings,

You cannot call the peacock a sweet-voiced bird.

O Siyovush, from body, head, face, words, and speech,

How can you ever grasp the nature of a puppet?

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4

Life these days is like a fable,

Reason is trampled by desires and has become estranged.

A daughter of the East wears the naked shirt of the West —

Does anyone know if she is homeless or mad?

Alas for this age of airplanes — birds on the ground are wandering in search of a grain.

Do not let the ego enter your heart,

An unilluminated house is like a ruined hovel.

The noble human trait is forbearance,

Contentment with what is in hand and on the brow is needed.

Blessed is that home in whose thought,

“The dry bread of toil is like a royal morsel.”

O Siyovush, go sit for a moment with a master of heart —

His nature will guide you if his character is manly.

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5

Speech must be weighed on the scales of intellect,

An inappropriate remark can bring despair to the sick.

The fiery effect of words can split the heart —

Slowly, the dust-storm brings down the wall.

Since we ourselves are hurt by the behavior of rivals,

It is not right to inflict torment on anyone.

In every era, there is a match for Qori Ismat —

He fills his barn at the expense of others.

Nothing is spent from his table, yet he hopes,

To take away one poor man’s morsel.

The number of fools is not small in the world —

Doesn’t a rotten piece of wood still serve a carpenter?

I wanted to give advice so that it reaches this and that one —

The noble men of speech have bestowed a hundred works.

Though I have turned the millstone of reason,

I have found no sign of the unique creation on the lip of the pitcher.

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On the unjust bloodshed that is happening to the people of Palestine

Human existence in this world is sweet,

Whether life is easy or hard.

The sign of happiness is not the magnificent palace at all —

It is enough to be in a home of mud and clay in one’s homeland.

Brother, in times of need, he is ready to help,

But see how kindness and care have become scarce.

The world is a bustling market full of deceit and uproar,

The sick heart is no place for the beautiful scent of loyalty.

If the root is pure, the branch will also be pure —

Look how the leaf of the garden is tarnished by dust.

Where are the nights of peace? The house groans with heaviness,

Like a branch that fears the bitter cold of winter.

They threw a child into the sea or into pools of blood —

Today, they call that “justice,” oh!

O Siyovush, go, convey my greeting to Palestine —

Even if the way there passes through the blade of a sword.

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