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Poem
How are you, dear Temirzhan? Is the village fine?  
Has your yellow colt grown strong, a true design?  
Your children must have flourished, now grown and bold,  
Once they sat by the fire, stories to be told.  

Are the brides still calling you “old bachelor”?  
Is that fellow still celebrating near the store?  
Am I aging day by day, with thoughts so deep,  
As I ponder all these things, I hardly sleep.  

The Zhem hasn’t flowed this year, it seems so dry,  
Botay lake was once a river, but now it’s shy.  
Yet what we hope for often doesn’t play,  
What’s meant to be will be, come what may.  

I know the dust storms of the vast terrain,  
How the earth brings forth its own refrain.  
Cows are licking sand, can’t find grass to graze,  
Your little one may have lost their playful ways.  

Last time I visited, digging was in sight,  
Were they bringing in water? I wondered, polite.  
If I could find you, I would ask with glee,  
To catch up and hear how things used to be.  

If water arrives, the village will thrive,  
Green poplars will rise, bringing life alive.  
Let not your hungry cows munch on your trees,  
With no shepherd around, they’ll do as they please.  

Where are the children? No ball games in sight,  
Have they all gone indoors, hidden from the light?  
We wouldn’t enter that cherished old place,  
As doves soared high in the blue sky's embrace.  

With friends, we’d savor joys, taste the sweets,  
Wandering the village, where happiness meets.  
One day feels like a week in that serene space,  
Time would freeze, a blessing in that place.  

In the city, it’s chaos, noise all around,  
Life rushes by, yet no peace can be found.  
But in my quiet village, where time stands still,  
I find a gentle calm, a heart to fulfill.  

Though we’re not great hunters, let’s take a stroll,  
With dogs at our side, we’ll lighten our soul.  
Let’s share soup in the fresh air, laughter and cheer,  
Hunting ducks by Qosköl**, with friends we hold dear.  

While many wander lost, worn down by the race,  
Half a life slips by before we find our place.  
Take care, dear Temirzhan, until next spring,  
In the fresh air of April, together we’ll sing.
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