The pencil cries beneath erasers’ hands,
A human breaks from pieces others planned.
Like falling tears it spills its fragile life,
Its years erased by erasers’ silent knife.
Xasanova Aziza Kumushbek qizi is a young poet and student of Tashkent economics and Pedagogy University Uzbekistan
Erasers
ErasersThe pencil cries beneath erasers’ hands,
A human breaks from pieces others planned.
Like falling tears it spills its fragile life,
Its years erased by erasers’ silent knife.
It does not speak, nor trembles it in pain,
They say that silence proves a soul is sane.
Each time it stares at misery once more,
The pencil scars the paper to the core.
The paper screams in bitterness and ache:
“Why do you scratch me so for your own sake?
I too shall end one day, consumed by flame,
And slowly taste the fire’s burning claim.”
The ruler whispers: “Pencil, do not cry,
I know your pain, I stand with you nearby.
Beside you always, shoulder close and tight,
I’ll be your help, your strength, your borrowed might.”
Alas, the pencil loves but one alone —
The eraser that erased itself, full-blown.
A thousand rulers could not ever mend
That crooked eraser — faithful till the end.
O humankind, why are you so ungrateful?
You hurt the one who feeds you, kind and fateful.
They too will pass, like erasers fade,
And slowly leave this world they once have made.
They give their hearts to silence, cold and deep,
Then all at once their tears begin to seep.
You say: sister, mother — yet you see
No woman’s pain, no strength, no dignity.
We never know the pencil’s precious worth,
Its lifetime too is fading on this earth.
By erasers’ bitter, sharpened edge,
It draws its life — no plea, no solemn pledge.
Its patience stands unmatched in all the land,
Too heavy even for a man to stand.
You say: father, brother — yet you sting
Like scorpions, cruel in everything.
Do not withhold sweet words upon your tongue,
Do not consume the life of anyone.
They too arrived here only once in time,
Into this strange, imperfect world of mine.
***
Gratitude
The day my heart was burning, full of pain,
My Lord then whispered softly: “Wait, remain.”
“The fruit of patience you will surely see,
For you had asked for nothing else but Me.”
I bowed in thanks, in prostration I stayed,
I raised my head and held the dream I prayed.
From Allah asked — He gives with perfect might,
From man comes blame, reproach, and bitter spite.
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