The traces of my childhood still live in my mind.
I walked those days carefree, pure and kind.
He comes to me in dreams if only in my sight.
A poet father lived in me, though not in name.
Not a poet by title, yet he moved the pen.
He lit my soul with fire, taught me verse back then.
His honest deeds made many hearts awake.
A poet father lived in me, though not in name.
A loving heart yes that was truly you.
You said, “My child, never be a poet too.”
Then why did you place your pen into my hand?
A poet father lived in me, though not in name.
With pain in heart, I write sometimes in silence deep.
Who now will read these verses that I keep?
Tears fall from my eyes, slow and dim.
A poet father lived in me, though not in name.
He passed unaware of sorrow’s heavy weight.
With poetry he filled what life left incomplete.
I’ll make his name known, my father, to my friends.
A poet father lived in me, though not in name.
Jahongir Murodov
Uzbekistan
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