My teacher whose study room is bright
Quiet night. The stars tell their lullaby,
Moon listens to the tales of the sleepy sky.
Wails the breeze playing music, saying goodbye,
To the latest stars, cradling them with tie.
The world rests, only you are left,
My dear teacher, whose classroom is bright.
Filling your student’s notebook with red,
You let yourself down with a heavy sigh.
Questioning always an honor student,
Dedicating to them all your sweet words.
The world rests, only you are left,
My dear teacher, whose classroom is bright.
You say we are your Babur, Nadira, Alisher,
You say as if we are Sino, Furkhat, Islam.
You are a poem burning in my heart o, dear,
You are my musician, and I am your motive.
The world rests, only you are left,
My dear teacher, whose classroom is bright.
It’s a midnight. The latest star twinkles,
Reading your work from open notebook.
He also aspires to be like you,
Telling fairy tales daily to the moon.
The world rests, only you are left,
My dear teacher, whose classroom is light.
I can’t get enough of looking through your window,
Whenever I observe, you sit thoughtfully.
I won’t let you do your own work any more,
I made a mistake again, let me fix it now.
The world rests, only you are left,
My dear teacher, whose classroom is bright.
The words of Otabek
Where should I go if I don’t love?
They sing a wedding song to Zainab Khan.
What should I do if Kumushbibi weeps out?
Shaking the whole heavens with tears come.
My soul is dying with few tears,
The heart is also grieving but why?
My body is now in two cages,
Agreed to my fate at the end, I.
Is this really fate of affection?
Struggling their own banks, these rivers.
Like a curse jealousy again and again
Questions my love from the waves.
My love not knowing its true value,
Stays finally between these two doors.
My baby love also struggles in the middle,
In the center of two cradles which is poor.
The heart is one, and the mind is different,
The hearts are wondering without ways.
The soul is one, and the body is separate.
My Sun and my Moon aren’t two,
What should I say: Zaynab or Kumushoyim.
Each bud has one bud,
Sprouting from one root.
I am unstable, impatient, unhappy,
My poisoned Kumush is now ill, not happy.
Who gave Zaynab this poison?
Maybe the devil, or pain of love.
Kumushbibi went to the heaven,
She left, as if saved our “love”.
No matter how many odes and epics,
How many masterpieces are created.
Otabeks and Kumushs live forever,
In the kingdom of devotion, end.
Doniyor MAVJUTOV
Uzbekistan