Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.148.145.200

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

3. Not seeing his own people for eight months,
Not coming among them for eight months.
In one day, he slaughtered the peaceful folks,
Like a hunter shooting gazelles in the steppe.
Tell me, is your thirst satisfied?
Is this blood separate from your own?
Answer to the thick crowd that weeps blood,
Before facing the judgment of hell.
You say you will shoot again. Go ahead!!!
The power is yours; you have the right.
The last remnants of your honor are gone,
The pride you had has been destroyed!
With mothers who tear their hair,
And the orphan’s in despair,
Let yourselves be drowned in their curses!!!
The relentless blast of the icy wind,
Freezing nature into ice.
His heart, frozen, still feels:
The SPIRIT breaks it down one by one,
It warms the whole world coming forth,
This is the goodness called SPIRIT!!!

The sorrow of my Kazakh people
has been deep since the beginning,  
Another mournful day has come upon them.  
Oh, how terrible!!!  
The whole world witnessed  
The deaths of the young men in Zhanaozen.

You act all-knowing in your own way,  
It deceives yourself and others.  
In a land where people stood unmoving for eight months,  
Tell me, if you know, what secrets lie within?  
For the blood that surged is now clear,  
You can't never kill the SPIRIT again!!!  
You can't never wash away  
The blood that has dripped from your hands!

You can kill a hundred, or a thousand people,  
You can drain the blood without a trace.  
In two December massacres were a slaughter,  
The people will never forget this square!
The people will never forget the Zhanaozen!!!

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required