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Personal Note:

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Poem

I will never diminish the value of words,  
The value of words,  
When I think of it – I think of my worth.  
Will not the spirit of words strike me from above,  
If my small talent fails to reach its depth, like a lost dove?  

A mirage swings, rocking the pale steppe,  
The distant whistle of a train echoes, a sorrowful rep.  
Heavy carts drag, a train on the land,  
Slithering like a snake, across the vast sand.  

The heavy train moves westward,  
While our oil flows free, untouched, unheard.  
We’ll take the oil milk, and in its place pour water,  
As the earth’s torn face slowly grows darker.  

The sun sets, its light fading away,  
The heat becomes unnoticed, waning day by day.  
Bit by bit, the red watermelon is consumed,  
Soon to be gone, as though it were doomed.  

Gone, it vanishes as though it never was,  
Like the dark scorpion, draining life with no pause.  
Our ancestors’ shout, “Abilai!” they call,  
While we, stumbling, wonder what we’re fighting for at all.  

Have the Kazakhs been forgotten, left in vain?  
Is it the end of strength, the loss of reign?  
From Mangystau to the Volga, cattle roam,  
The lost times echo, when herders called it home!  

The lost times when the colt would neigh,  
The sheep would graze, so pure in their sway!  
As the sun sets, I gaze in sorrow’s flight,  
Hoping for a fortune, wishing for light.

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