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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

6 chapters of the short novel of Holder Volcano "Falling leaves"


(Translated by author)

Chapter 1

Spring fields


 

Spring, birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can't climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to rip their harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work. Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She is so beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference she has increased "oppression" on the lovers. She didn't even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.

Khurshida"s father Abduljabbar very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and satisfied with drunken fights. But Jabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.
Although Abduljabbar is not a religious fanatic, but he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida will disgrace their family, he will curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys, Raheela knew that the class of her daughter not all girls were friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love her but not with them.

With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom was like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe which comes from Willow Grove, where the wind wanders drunk. There, in the distance, a willow grove, a cotton field, she saw an alone tractor that silently glided over the field like a ship on the surface of a green sea of cotton. Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.

-Choygaaaaaaaaa!- she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.

Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips, a peculiarity of the guy with a green scar on his left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:
- Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree - beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can’t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thought, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn’t fire the whole clip at me. I layer down for a while and I look, and there's a singing magpie. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It’s a good thing nobody but me saw it.

After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed. Khurshida too, then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar's tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.

- Okay - agreed Khurshida and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.

- Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.

Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!

- Oh, excuse me, for God's sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don't know Your name... what your name? - Said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.

A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:

- Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh... my name is Sultan!

- Oh, Mister Sultan, sorry! I didn't want to... - said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.

-Don't worry, girl, about anything... Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh... Ahh-ahh-ahh....My leg will get better before the wedding said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.
Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:
-And You? What's your name?

- Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.

-Very nice... Vsss-aaaaa-aah... Yyyyh! That's a beautiful name, like you, honestly. You, Khurshida, do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. Its lunch time right now... - said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.

- No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? - cried Khurshida.

Here the tractor driver Sultan stopped limping and said.

- Well, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released the pain, don't you worry. I have everything in order. Don’t you believe my words? Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I'm healthy as an ox.
Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.

Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.

 

eb23ebae4e2f0a5747a3836a73a792433eb756231883193 (700x510, 39Kb)

 

 

Подробнее...

 

Холдор Вулқон

Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилар уюшмасининг аъзоси

 

Ижодкорнинг ўз халқи олдидаги муқаддас бурчи

(Ўзбек халқининг энг севикли шоирларидан бири Абдували Қутбиддин ижоди ҳақида)




Зиёлийлар, ижодкорлар, санъаткорлар халқ онги шуурининг юксалишига масъул, таназзулига эса жавобгардирлар.


Қайси мамлакатда адабиёт ва санъат ривожи юксак бўлса, ўша мамлакат ҳар соҳада тез тараққий этади.


Мен доим мисол билан ёзаман.


Бу гал ҳам.


Мисол учун рус қўшиқчилигини олайлик.
Николай Расторгуевнинг қўшиғида:

Отчего так в России березы шумят?


деган сўзлар бор.Бу қўшиқни тинглаб, беихтиёр  шамолларда шовуллаётган қайинлар кўз олдингизга келади.

Ёки:

Позови меня тихо по имени.

Ключевой водой напои меня,

Позови меня, грусть-печаль моя,

Позови меня на закате дня.


Ёхуд:



Там за туманами берег наш родной.



Ёки Алсунинг(Ойсулувнинг):

 

На землю тихо опустилась

Зима, зима, зима.

Я для тебя не погасила

Свет в одиноком окне.


қўшиғи.


Бундай гўзал мисраларни барча тараққий этган халқларнинг қўшиқларидан мисол тариқасида истаганча келтириш мумкин.


Қўшиқлари саёз, шеърлари тўпори мамлакат аҳолисининг диди тобора ўтмаслашиб бораверади, онги шуури, тафаккури тобора саёзлашаверади, қаровсиз, ташландиқ уйдаги кўзгу каби чанг босиб, хиралашаверади.


Охир оқибат у халқ бошқа мутараққий халқлардан камида юз, икки юз йил ортда қолиб кетади.


Ундай халқ ўз ўзидан бошқа халқларнинг қулига айланади.

Мен барча истеъдодли санъаткорларимизни мумтоз ва эстрада қўшиқчиларимизни заррача камситмаган ҳолда, фақат фалсафий мавзуларда ва муҳаббат ҳақида "Сенинг қошларинг қаро, менинг бағрим яро" қабилидаги саёз сўзли қўшиқлардан воз кечиб, халқимиз дидини чархлаб ўткирлайдиган, туйғуларини нафислаштирадиган, Ватанимиз табиатига муҳаббат уйғотадиган туйғули асарлар яратиш таклифини ўртага олиб чиқмоқдаман.


Юқоридаги қўшиқ матнлари билан бизнинг қўшиқларимиз матнларини солиштириб, таққослаб кўриш ва ҳулоса чиқариш эса фойдадан ҳоли эмас.


Аммо бу билан Ўзбекистонимизда замонавий санъат бутунлай оқсаб қолган демоқчи эмасмиз.


Худога шукр, тасвирий санъатда ҳам, мусиқа ва қўшиқчиликда ҳам, сўз санъати соҳасида ҳам ифтиҳорга арзигулик асарларимиз, қўшиқларимиз, санъаткор ижодкорларимиз йўқ эмас.


Бу гапларимиз исботли бўлиши учун истеъдодини Худои Таолонинг ўзи ато этган, диди юксак, ёниқ шоирлардан бири Абдували Қутбиддиннинг шеърларидаги ҳайратбахш ташбеҳларга тўхталамиз.


Абдували Қутбиддин бир шеърида маъшуқага мурожаат қилиб, ёрнинг золимлигидан зорланаркан, ҳар банд адоғида: Мен ахир... деган қайтариқни келтираверади.Аммо бу қайтариқ асло медага тегмайди.Аксинча, айнан ўша қайтариқ худди кўринмас зинапоялар сингари ўқигувчини тобора юқорига, кўз илғамас илоҳий юксакликка кўтараверади.


Мен ахир... деган сўзлар давомини айтмаслик билан ошиқ бўғзидан жон каби чиқиб кетолмай қийналаётган, хиқиллаётган "Мен ахир, сени севардим!" деган сўзларни сўзсиз англатади, шарқона ҳаё ва одоб суратини чизарак, шеърдаги тамоми дарду ҳасратлар залворини шу икки сўзга юклайди.


Шеърни ўқиётган одам ошиқнинг оғир дарду ҳасрати залворидан бечора сўзларнинг бўйин томирлари чилвирдай бўртиб, оёқлари майишаётганини, уларнинг туядай бўкириб, филдай чинқиришга тараддудланаётганини ҳис қилади.


Навбатдаги шеърида Абдували Қутбиддин:

 

 

Сим -симей, сим - сим,

Мабодо алдасам қўлларим синсин

 


дея ёзади.Мисраларни ўқиб, шоир "сим -сим" сўзига "Синсин" сўзини қофия қилибдида, лекин нега энди алдаган, ёлғон гапирган тил эмас, айнан қўллар синиши керак? -дея ўйлайсиз.Кейин лоп этиб мийянгизга "шоир тилнинг суяксизлигига ишора қилмоқда шекилли.Суяксиз тил касофатига эса аксарият ҳолларда одамнинг суякли аъзолари синади" деган фикр келади ва -э, қойиле -дея шоша пиша шеърни ютоқиб ўқишда давом этасиз:

 

Сўнгги дам ўзим-ла ўчакишсам, ҳай,

Соҳир кўзларингдан талаб этсам май,

Эвоҳ, кекирдагим кесиб этсам най,

Пуфласам – куй ёнса,

Сим-сим-эй, сим-сим.

Мабодо алдасам юрагим тинсин.

 


Ошиқ ўзига ўзи ўчакишиб, оқибат ўз афтода аҳволи билан ёрини йиғлатиши, кўз ёш тўла ёр қароқларини май тўла сеҳрли косага менгзаб юбориши ҳам оздай, энди у ўз кекирдагини кесиб, най қилиб чалса, пуфласа, қони бензиндай сачраб, ишқ навосига ўт кетиб, вужуди соғинч алангасида гувиллаб ёнаркан, ёри яшаётган ёрилтош ховли, яъни кўксидаги қонталаш эшикни дукка дукка ура юраги тўхташини, тинишини  таъкидлайди.


Кейинги "Бошпана" деган шеърда шоир:



Кўзингни тикма, бу менинг бошпанам,

Пойгакдан мўлтайма, асло қўймайман,

Юрак деб аталган қизил офтобадан,

Ўзим қон ичгайман, сенга қуймайман.

 


дея ёзади.


Мисралардаги манзарани кўз олдингизга келтирар экансиз, юмор ва сатира бўёқлари билан ишланган ажойиб картинага ва шоир қонини ичмоқ умидида ютиниб, яланиб, пойгакда мўлтайиб турган, шайтондай маккор, қалби кўхна мўридай қорайиб, қурум босиб кетган бахил, баттол ва суллох кимса карикатурасига, ва хилватда ўз қонини ўзи ичаётган узлатнишин шоир образига термулганингиз куйи, беихтиёр Абдували Қутбидиннинг иқтидорига, истеъдодига, махоратига қойил қоласиз.


Қуйидаги мисраларда эса шоир шундай ёзади:



Осима,

Сен ҳақсан,

Мен тугаб ботдим,

Бу қисса сўнгида, шудир қасида.

Гўзал борлиғимни майдалаб сотдим,

Йўғимни қайтардим

Ўз эгасига…

 


Кибрли, беписанд оСиМага қарата айтилган кинояни қаранг.Одамзод умр бўйи манфаатга, муваққат курсию дунёнинг арзимас бойликларига, малъун моли матохига ўзидаги виждонни, қалбини, имонни, гўзал ҳислатларини, инсоний фазилатларининг борини майдалаб сотиб, фақат ҳеч нарсаси қолмаган кераксиз танасини, жонсиз жасадини Яратганга қолдирар экан.

Мана шеър, мана сўз санъатининг ноёб намунаси!


Мен мақолам сўнгида Абдували Қутбиддиндай ер юзига минг йилда бир келадиган шоирлар сояда қолиб кетмаслиги, улар ўз вақтида муносиб тақдирланиши, уларга юксак унвонлар тақдим этилиши керак -дея  Ўзбекистон Ёзувчилар уюшмасига мурожаат қиламан.


Чунки Абдували Қутбиддин юксак мукофоту унвонларга лойиқ шоир.




18/05/2016.

Кеч соат 6 дан 10 дақиқа ўтди.

Канада.

 

 

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Сongratulations


Британиялик япон ёзувчиси Кадзуо Исигурони кучли ҳаяжон билан суғорилган романлари учун Нобель мукофотига сазовор бўлгани билан чин дилдан қутлаймиз.


Ҳурмат билан, ўзбек ёзувчиси Холдор Вулқон



We heartily congratulate the British writer of Japanese descent Kazuo Ishiguro with the awarding of the Nobel prize in literature for emotional power in his novels.


Sincerely, Uzbek writer Xolder Volkano.



Мы сердечно поздравляем британского писателя японского происхождения Кадзуо Исигуро с присуждением ему Нобелевской премии по литературе за эмоциональной силы в его романах.


С уважением, узбекский писатель Холдор Вулкан.

 

 

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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of  Writers

 

Evening lights



I love your evening lights, Toronto,
and flying flocks of wild Canadian geese,
which will fly low over me,
waving it's wings and chorus,
along the corridors of your skyscrapers,
and will fly over Lake Ontario,
Silent, disappearing somewhere far away,
where I look from the shore in silence,
turning my hair into a straw
against the background of a blazing sunset.



26/03/2018.
7:21 pm.
Canada, Ontario.



Dance in the Rain



The night street is a deserted disco,
Everyone is gone, they are brutally tired.
The rain pours noisily, as if from a watering can,
Without violating the rules of nature.

The lights in the windows are still burning,
Thoughtfully and sadly.
Thunder blows up a projectile in the sky,
Flashing instantly.

The rain floods the street with tears,
There is fiery-hot dance.
The Twilight with Bound Eyes,
Dances proudly, like a Spaniard.



25/09/2017.
9:21 AM.
Canada, Ontario.

 

 

 

Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза Писателей Узбекистана

Заседание в холодном клубе



-Ну, кто из вас намерен жить вечно?
Колхозники, поднимите руки!..
А на улице вьюга гуляет беспечно,
Где греются ваши внуки...

Вот, все колхозники молчат, то есть,
Никто в этом мире не вечен.
У кого почки, а у кого сердце ноет,
У этого наверно засохла печень.

Но все умные как Леонардо да Винчи,
Говорят нет газа, электричества тоже.
Какие неблагодарные нынче,
Рабы твои, Боже!

Учитесь жить без электричества срочно,
Не смотря на больные почки и печень.
У кого ворчливая жена, тому точно,
Инфаркт обширный обеспечен...

Вам теперь не спрятаться, некуда бежать,
Наша жизнь -поезд, а люди - вагоны.
Всем суждено в могиле лежать,
Смерть скоро всех догонит.

Чтобы привыкнуть к такому, при жизни,
Нужно день и ночь заниматься.
Не бойтесь, если прихватите болезни,
И попадете в реанимации.

Нет электричества и газа, зато,
У нас такой экзотический край.
И вы наивные граждане, думаете о том,
Что так легко попасть в рай?

Чтобы попасть в рай вечный, сначало,
Вы как следует должны страдать.
Нехорошо идти на повадке шакалов,
И душу свою оппозицию продать.

У меня дома газ горит как в кремотории,
И живу я словно в райском саду.
А вы не стремитесь к огню, который,
Полыхает в страшном аду...



27/09/2017.
6:28 вечера.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

В раздевалке осени



С ветвей рассеянно слетают листья,
В безлюдном парке скамейки пусты.
Пожелтели деревьев зеленые письма,
Ветры почему то рвут их на куски.

Птицы на солнце грея себе брюхо,
Летят как слова, сказанные невпопад.
Говоря о чем то людям в ухо,
В тишине шепчет листопад.

Ромашковые поля и луга скошены,
День за днем крепчает стужа.
Деревья раздеваются в раздевалке осени,
Гляда в прозрачные зеркала лужи.



20/09/2017.
1:06 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Ты птицам рукой помаши



Тишина висит на паутинной нити,
О как пожелтели без тебя дни!
В тумане деревьев тусклые силуэты,
Словно полузабытие сны.

В зеркальных лужах осенных улиц,
Отражались полуголые березы.
Будто они плакали долго и утонули,
В свои собственные слезы.

А ветер спешит на репетиции,
Туда, где играют на дудке камыши.
Махают тебе крыльями птицы,
Ты им рукой помаши.



19/09/2017.
1:58 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

Искры



Осенние деревья нам служили,
Зажженными свечами словно.
Вокруг них листья кружились,
Золотыми мотыльками плавно.

Горели деревья за окном, оголели,
Багровый октябрь, ты их пожалей.
Чтобы они дотла не сгорели,
Освещая парков и аллей.

Нет, в небе не звезды мерцают,
Как гигантская люстра, как чудеса.
Это из горящих деревьев летают,
Искры в бескрайные небеса.



19/09/2017.
9:15 утра.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Слово



Он затруднялся произнести слово,
Которое в горле как комок.
Попытался сказать снова и снова,
Но никак не мог.

Слово было особенное, то есть,
Священное, слово всех слов.
От напряжения изо рта его,
Просочилась кровь.

Будто душа в горле застряло,
Умерающего солдата прямо.
И во рту его кровью забулькало,
Слово "Мама".



19/09/2017.
2:02 ночи.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

Дятел



В бетонных рощах семьями гнездятся,
Птицы без крыльев зимой и весной.
Они тоже поют дерутся и галдят,
В каменной чаще лесной.

За синими холмами звонкие тополя,
Где костер лето все еще не угас.
Замерают деревья на минних полях,
Чтобы не наступить на фугас.

Ждут пестрого дятла деревянные столбы,
День летний солнечный и яркий.
А дятел стальным клювом долбит,
Раздробляя бетонную плиту в парке.



18/09/2017.
5:16 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Пьяный стеклорез



Пьяный апрель режет стекло,
На берегу реки солнечным лучом.
Сколько стекло по реке утекло,
Потерию не восполнить ничем.

Эх, апрель, кто так стекло режет?
Над тобой смеются, свистят.
Нарезанные тобой стекла как лезвия,
Они острой гильотиной блестят.

Вон, видишь, на берегу рябину,
И на стволе ее ржавого гвоздя?
Порезалась она, стеклом и у нее,
Истекают кровью гроздья.



18/09/2017.
1:40 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Утешение



Что с тобой, одуванчик усталый?
Где твоя весеняя улыбка?
Неужели так быстро пробежало,
Время -ленивая улитка?

Затоптали тебя в лесу двуногие,
Во время сбора ягод.
Тебя обожают любят многие,
Ты страшно поседел за год.

Я встретил тебя вдоль дороги,
И на туманом вечерном поле.
Где мирно лошади и коровы,
Паслись дружно на воле.

Ты живи в моих стихах вечно,
Обеспечив лошадей едой.
Ну, что ты, перестань,одуванчик,
Не плачь, друг мой седой...



18/09/2017.
11:26 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

 

x_15d42282 (604x453, 162Kb)

 

 

 

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132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of  Writers

 

To all of humanity



Oh man, don't play with fire,
illuminating with a torch in your hand
the tank with gasoline.


Learn to solve problems peacefully
while there is still a way out of this situation
still didn't get the third nuclear
world war.


Yes, I know,
in the event of war you have
their shelters, underground bunkers.


And the common people in the world?


Where will they hide?


In the subway?


If you start a global nuclear war
then the metro will not help humanity,
and no missile defense system
which knocks and blows
uncontrollable ballistic missiles
in the air.


Well, shot down, blown up missiles.
And then what?


What will happen to the air, such a single,
which humanity breathes?


Because there is no other oxygen
and there is no guarantee that after the war
air, water, winds, rains, birds and insects
become carriers of the epidemic.


Oh, my friend!
You have no right to sit idly by
You have to find a way out of this situation.
It is your sacred duty and direct responsibility.


Because the people chose you in a fair election,
trusting you with their fate.


Let all the people on the planet live in peace and harmony,
as a member of one  family,
regardless of their nationality, race and religion!


Let weapons and rearmament disappear from the face of the earth
Barbed wire and, boundaries too,
the contents of which are spent each year
billions and billions of dollars
from the state budget.


Let the passport will become
in the most primitive document
in Museum exhibit!


And let a single passport become
pure human conscience
throughout the world!



04/09/2017.

10:16 PM.

Canada, Ontario.

 

x_15d42282 (604x453, 162Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of  Writers

 

The world needs balance

(Traslated by author)



(About what I'm writing now, maybe many people know, but nonetheless.Let this be my personal opinion.That is, I do not intend to teach anyone.X.V.)


Even a fool could see that the road passes through a tight rope called life.

People just destined to walk down that rope, even if missing their hands and feet.

In order to take a landmark and keep a balance on this high and dangerous rope, a person must balance.

It is enough to look at the world and think about why only on this planet there is life on other planets and it simply does not.

Because our planet is located at an average distance and because of that location on Earth appeared and evolved life.

If it were a little closer to the sun then it the temperature would be incompatible with life.

Or on the contrary, it would freeze up, being at a remote distance from the sun.Based on this, we the people need to stay in the middle lane of global society ,a neutral position in all relationship with each other, as our planet in the Solar system.

It's called neutrality.

And the balance is in the middle, without balance in recent findings, in societies, in the lives of all creatures and as a result, they will collapse.

To humanity sooner or later have sunk into the abyss, the people of the world should keep the balance in society, living in harmony with other people.

People have to live giving way to each other on this rope as in the world and in the universe everything is interconnected and nothing and no one in this world can not exist separately.

Even after death.

If you look at it through the prism of logic, it immediately becomes clear that the concept of "INDEPENDENCE" is also relative.

People and everything that exists in this world are connected to each other by an invisible chain.We are just little parts of a giant organism like the cells that are directly in contact with each other and cannot be independent.

We depend not only from our other relatives but also from everything that surrounds us.

We are all human beings living on one planet breathing the same air, drinking the same water.

And not in vain read the religious books that God created Adam a single and told him to live in the boundless heavenly garden called Heaven.

Then to Adam was withered from boredom and loneliness, he pulled out a rib and from the rib created eve.

The question arises: Why such an Almighty God created a woman from the same material from which Adam created?

Here lies the whole truth.

Because Adam, a human is one and inseparable organism, even if its abundance on Earth is billions or trillions.

We are just fighting with each other the cells of a single organism, which die and regenerate.

We are parasites, devouring inside of this giant single organism, which seems to us the universe and infinity, which is not possible even heavy duty to see to the naked eye.

It will cover not only the view but our weak and limited mind.

That is, this giant organism is mind-boggling.

It is not possible to reach the boundaries of this creature, even flying on it forever, not just for spacecraft but a time machine and we have eternity, for this giant creature only seconds.

If eternity passes as seconds within this seemingly endless body, then why do we have to oppress to kill each other so pathetic in his pitifully short life, committing sins together in order to live to rejoice in peace and harmony with other creatures, leaving a bright memory in the hearts of everyone on the planet that is our only home, our last refuge in the boundless space?

We are the inhabitants of the planet of the victims and the miserable slaves of their own desires!

Before talking about the freedom of another person about freedom of speech on the freedom of other people and of humanity, the first thing we should exempt themselves from the most!

Until we free ourselves from desires and while we are at the mercy of the passions, and can never establish control over them.

In order to establish an equilibrium in the global society, we must first balance ourselves, that is, to establish control.

Because life on Earth is created on a balance.

And the life of the people is one, only one.

To forcibly take it away from people, especially not innocent children, we should make every effort and work together to prevent political imbalance and escalation of tensions, differences between the conflicting parties, and to maintain stability in hot spots around the world before it's too late!Until the THIRD WORLD war-the LAST WAR!




02/05/2015.

7:45 PM.

the city of Brampton, Canada.

 

 

x_15d42282 (604x453, 162Kb)

 

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Volcano

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

Falling leaves

(povest)

Traslated by author

 

Any commercial use of the povest Holder Volcano "Falling leaves" prohibited without the prior written consent of the author.(Holder Volcano)

 

1 Chapter

Spring fields



Spring. Birds singing in the high poplars at field mill, where the white blossomed acacia. Recently, among the thorny branches of acacia could see a nest of magpies, and now it disappeared from sight among the leaves and flowering bunches of the tree. Magpies are very smart birds. They know that boys can't climb a tree, whose thorny branches, as its sharp spiny thorns may hurt to scratch his hands and feet and even to break them harem pants. Acacia flowers have captured the soul like Souvenirs made from pieces of white porcelain. The pleasant smell of these bunches winds spread across the field where farmers work.Khurshida worked, knocking hoe on the rocky field. It was a girl of eighteen, fair-skinned, with a dense and gentle curly dark brown hair, with a slender figure and magnificent Breasts, with hazel eyes, and clear eyes. She is so beautiful smiling coral lips, showing white healthy and beautiful teeth, that a lot of guys in the village were crazy about her. But Khurshida did not pay attention to either one of them, as she felt for him the tender feelings called love. His indifference she has increased "oppression" on the lovers. She didn't even answer your love letters that boys wrote and passed her through her friends.


Khurshida"s father Abduljabbar very strict towards his daughter Khurshida and his difficult character and behavior more like a stepfather than her own father. He often drinks alcohol and satisfied with drunken fights. But Jabbar is a good specialist in the field of sheep shearing. He works as a mechanic on a cattle farm. Repairs on the farm milking machines, automatic drinking bowls, conveyors, cleaning barns, combines, forage shredders and so on.

Although Jabbar is not a religious fanatic, but he strictly prohibits Khurshida to go to parties dedicated to the birthday of her classmates, which was attended by boys. Abduljabbar swore that if his daughter Khurshida will disgrace their family, he will curse. So mother of Khurshida Raheela every day insisted that she did not play with fire and was cautious in communication with her classmates and other unknown guys, Raheela knows that the class of her daughter, not all girls are friendly with Khurshida. That is, some girls are jealous of Khurshida and look at her with despise, because she's pretty and many guys were in love her but not with them.


With these thoughts in mind, Khurshida continued to work on the field, leveling soil for planting cotton. She loves to work in the fields alone, as nobody bothers to think about what she wants to think. Loneliness for her freedom like the boundless sky. Sometimes Khurshida stops, to straighten her back, listening to the distant of a sad voice of an alone hoopoe, which comes from willow grove, where the wind wanders drunk. There, in the distance, a willow grove, a cotton field, she saw an alone tractor that silently glided over the field like a ship on the surface of a green sea of cotton.Khurshida thoughtfully watched agile low flying swallows. They flew over the fields, almost touching the ground, and its white belly and wings similar to bent black daggers with sharp blades. Then again she set to work, humming a sad song about love. And the sun slowly but surely rose to the tip of the sky. Khurshida worked on the field under the scorching sun and stopped work only when on the hill, the cook Tubo shouting the beginning to entice people for lunch.


-Choygaaaaaaaaa! - she cried, and her voice flew over the spring fields, like a bird freed from its chest.


Leaving the hoe on the edge of the field, Khurshida went to the side of the field mill. Approaching her, she smelled a delicate sweet smell fragrant acacia which bloomed near the field camp, which grew tall poplars and weeping willows. At this point, of the cultivator, which stopped near a field camp, jumped a young tractor driver of about twenty to twenty five, in a worn skullcap, tall, broad-shouldered, snub-nosed, with curly hair, with a mustache above fleshy lips. A peculiarity of this guy in his green scar on the left eyebrow. It gave him the appearance of harshness and masculinity. His appearance resembled a Roman Gladiator who fought with his bare hands with hungry tigers. Khurshida had not seen this tractor driver in these parts, but I just remembered his tractor, which she just watched from afar in the cotton field. While Khurshida was removed from the branches of the mulberry tree a small pouch in which was bread, sugar, welding, aluminum spoon, and a mug with a bowl, the tractor driver was already standing in the queue at the field tin samovar, where workers were poured theirself a Cup of boiling water. Taking her mug, Khurshida poured her the tea and also got in line. Seeing her, the guy turned to look and gave up his place. Not expecting such a gentleman, Khurshida thanked the young tractor driver and kindly smiled. After a few minutes the guy started to talk to her:
- Girl, let me tell you an amazing story while we stand in line. In short, yesterday I go past this tree - beauty!- from the white acacia flowers that you can"t stop looking at. The acacia blooming was like a young bride in a white wedding dress! I stopped involuntarily admiring the unusual beauty of this tree, looking at it with delight, like a farmer who came from a distant village with a bag on his shoulders, who first saw the city. Then there was gunfire. I thoughlt, there was a terrorist shooting at me from the machine gun. I quickly lay down on the ground, so he couldn"t fire the whole clip at me. I layed down for a while, and I look, and there's a singing magpi. Well, I felt ashamed about myself. Stood up, looked around, found my dirty skullcap, shook off the dust, jammed it on my head and went on. It"s a good thing nobody but me saw it.


After hearing the story of the tractor driver, everybody having lunch amicably laughed.Khurshida too. Then came their turn. But, unfortunately, boiling water ceased to flow from the samovar's tap. It turned out that the cause was the fact that in the samovar boiling water level dropped below the level of the faucet, so it stopped showering. But the tractor driver found a way out: he asked Khurshida to bend the samovar and pour the boiling water into a mug, which he set up.


- Okay - agreed Khurshida and when the young tractor driver framed his mug to the tap of the samovar, Khurshida gently bent the samovar. But then disaster struck: Khurshida accidentally dropped the samovar, and he fell over, the young tractor driver scalded with boiling water. Tractor driver, making a face from a severe burn, started to jump from the pain, leaning on one leg, pulling air into the lungs.


- Vsss -ah-aaah! Vsss-ahh-ahhhh! Ooooohhhh!- he jumped from the stinging pain and spun like a dog chasing its tail.


Khurshida started to cry, not knowing what to do and how to calm the poor tractor driver. And workers who had already begun eating, all got up from their seats, feeling for the tractor driver who accidentally scalded with boiling water. Some laughed, especially when the timekeeper Abdelkasim cried, you take off your pants and jump right into the pond!


- Oh, excuse me, for God's sake, mister! This is all my fault!.. Badly burned?! Poor!.. I don't know Your name... what your name?.. said Khurshida, crying and circling around the guy in confusion.


A young tractor driver, holding his scalded thigh, stopped for a moment and with a grimace on his face said:


- Me? A-aaaaah- ahhhh... my name is Sultan!


- Oh, mister Sultan, sorry! I didn't want to... - said Khurshida with tears in her eyes.


-Don't worry, girl, about anything... Aa-a-ahhh-ahhh... Ahh-ahh-ahh....My leg will get better before the wedding said tractor driver Sultan, smiling through the grimace on his face, continuing to jump on one leg.
Then he asked, distorting the face of unbearable pain:
-And You? What's your name?


- Me? Oh yeah, my name is Khurshida.


-Very nice... Vsss-aaaaa-aah... Yyyyh! That's a beautiful name, like yourself, honestly. You, Khurshida, do not pay attention to me. Better get yourself something to eat. It"s lunch time right now... - said Sultan, continuing to rely on one leg to alleviate the pain.


- No, I will not eat. Well, how am I supposed to eat when you suffer because of me? - cried Khurshida.


Here the Sultan tractor driver stopped limping and said.


- Well, You, Khurshida, now quit crying! After all, people are looking at us. Already released the pain. Don't you worry. I have everything in order. Don"t you believe my words?.. Well, then I have no choice but to prove to you that I'm healthy as an ox.

Here look and, humming a tune, he began to dance, stamping their tarpaulin boots, as a dancer with great experience.


Sultan danced, whirling like a whirlwind and singing cheerful music. Seeing this, everyone around laughed as if the viewers who are watching a funny presentation of a wandering artist. Khurshida was also smiling through her tears, rejoicing that the Sultan let go of the pain.

 

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Холдор Вулкан

Член Союза писателей Узбекистана

 

Кто такой художник?



Если ты употребляешь в своих стихах слово "красиво", то, ты не поэт.Потому что слово "красиво" это лишь прилогательное, то есть общее понятие.

Ты станешь настоящим поэтом только тогда, когда сумеешь изображать прилогательное оригинальным образом с помощью слов.


Вот тогда ты станешь художником.


Художник это не тот человек, который рисует.


Да , среди представителей изобразительного исскуства тоже есть настоящие художники, Как Леонардо да Винчи, Рафаэль Санти, Ван Гог, Пабло Пикассо, Айвазовский, Исаак Левитан, Иван Шишкин и многие другие.

В литературе Джорж Байрон, Александр Пушкин, Сергей Есенин, Пастернак, Осип Мандельштам, Андрей Вознесенский, Роберт Рождественский, Иосиф Бродский, Лорка, Хименес, Мачадо, Лев Толстой, Ги  Де Мопассан, Бальзак, Александр Дьюма, Стендаль, Чехов, Гоголь, Кобо Абе, Джек Лондон, Кафка, Кортасар, Борхес, Эрнест Хемингуэй, Габриэль Маркес, Шолохов, Паустовский, Чингиз Айтматов и так далее.


Художник это высокое звание и стать художником не всем удается.


Настоящий художник создает произведение искусства.


Для того, чтобы создать произведение искусства, одаренный человек долгие годы должен трудиться до седьмого пота день и ночь, превращая свою душу в зеркало, где будет отражаться природа, люды и мысли как сияющая луна в колодезном ведре с прозрачной водой.

 

 

27/07/2017.
3:44 дня.
Канада, Онтерио.

 

Амирнинг-яхши-расми-шеъри-билан (700x455, 130Kb)

Источник:Одноклассники.ру.

0_5e4c3_5ddedfec_XL (700x553, 196Kb)

 

 

132221451_gorod_Brempton (202x216, 31Kb)

Holder Vulkan

Member of the Uzbek Union of Writers

 

New idea



The quantity of people on a planet for today is made by 7 500 000 000 people.


Now think, how many money will gather up, if each person will give one rouble one euro or one dollar to a new fund?


We, that is nations of the world should create new worldwide fund where each person, (if it really is the person) should list one rouble or one dollar in the bank account of this fund which means it will be directed on carrying out of hi-tech operations by the seriously ill patient to children by suffering serious disease by a heart disease or an immunodeficiency, also for transplantation of heart, a liver, kidneys and a bone brain.


It is idea not only will rescue lives of sick children, but also pulls together, unites nations of the world, regardless of nationality, race or religion.

 

 

02/07/2017.
12:27 day.
Canada.