ABDURASULOV NURIDDINJON SHAROFJONOVICH
In the heart of the year, comes old winter, so clear,
A season of whispering white, cold and austere.
The world is hushed, under a crystal quilt,
Where each snowflake’s descent is as delicate as silk.
Bare branches etch against a steel gray sky,
Like a monochrome painting, a melancholic lie.
The wind howls, a lonely wolf in the night,
Echoing through the silence, under the moon’s silver light.
Ice-glazed rivers, once flowing, now still,
Stand as glassy mirrors, atop the silent hill.
The world is a painting, dipped in hues of white,
Every corner, every shadow, bathed in soft moonlight.
Homes aglow with warmth, fires burning bright,
Against the icy chill, a beacon in the night.
Smoke spirals upwards, like a mystical dance,
In the heart of winter, in its cold, frosty expanse.
Winter, a storyteller, with tales to unfold,
Of knights, of dragons, of the warriors of old.
In its icy whisper, and its snowy veil,
It weaves tales of magic, as a fairy-tale.
So, rejoice in winter, in its icy embrace,
For it is a season of beauty, of subtle grace.
In its cold, there’s warmth, in its silence, a song,
In the heart of winter, where dreams belong.
Written by
ABDURASULOV NURIDDINJON SHAROFJONOVICH,
student of group 751-20 of Jizzakh State Pedagogical University,
Faculty of Foreign Languages
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