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Poem
My birthplace is Shokpartogai, my golden cradle,
Here I arrived, opening the door to this world wide.
The snowstorm paused, holding its breath inside,
When hear the cry of a baby struggling to survive.

My wide land was wrapped in a white blanket tight,
The jingling sound of a baby’s voice brought it light.
Awake, Land! Awake, Nation! Awake, the hills and ridges,
I come to awaken of people mind and feeling bridges!
My school was named after Zhdanov, where I did learn,
The lessons and values from you, I did discern.
Teachers with golden hearts, never tired of their quest,
Thanks to you, I climbed peaks, and passed each test.
I still recall the First of May, the street filled with flags,
On the 19th, they'd lead us to the bonfire's jags.
The crimson hue reminds me of human blood’s dread,
Since then, I shun the sight of red.
Shokpartogai, where my ancestors' blood was spilled,
When I add you to my song, my heart is filled.
Your fragrance sweet, your water like Zam-Zam pure,
In these, I found what happiness is, for sure.

The round moon rocks my cradle through the night, 
I dream and speak with stars of shining bright. 
Had I not left my childhood on your distant slopes, 
I'd never know the sacredness of father home roofs!

The old LPI tower still burns in my mind,
I haven’t forgotten every stone you behind.
We awaited there for the "Mangyshlak" train,
If bring the past century back, just my dream.

The scent of burnt iron lingers in my nose,
From here, young men to the army would go.
As they left for army, the villagers waving stood,
Our youthful hearts filled with dreams, as they would.

The days wave goodbye, never to return,
No one will greet me here, nobody to yearn.
At the end of the last century, I moved from the village, 
After sending my father on a forever voyage.

Today, the roads shine bright as diamonds in the light,
I walk, amazed by the view, so pure and bright.
From those dark, narrow streets we once knew,
We barely found our way, with a lantern’s view.

How bright are the streets, how perfect the way,
"Lager Tobe" is full the houses like display.
Every time we came, we'd stop by Zhyloi's gate,
Our precious memories are waited us great.

I walked on Shokpartogai Street again,
Sometimes thriving, sometimes with pain.
When meeting villagers, after a long time:
Let this be a poem we sing, sing of mine!
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