Letter to my friend - 1

Has water spread on the lowlands this year? Has grass grown in Aigara’s sphere? Oh my friend, like poison it’s spilled, This longing within me can’t be stilled. Has the Zhem* turned towards Shomishkol**? Did springs from Mughalzhar flow as a whole? Like a spring breeze, the waters do rise, A storm brews inside me, I can’t disguise. Once deep was the Zhem, so wide and so grand, On horseback, we rode, through this vibrant land. After the flood, the cliffs became bare, A million swallows made their home there. Is the village still putting sheep in the fold? Does the evening still bring tales to be told? Are the goats still struggling with their heavy load, With thistles embraced in their grassy abode? Do the old folks at dusk count the sheep with care? Are the young men still taming the wild with flair? Such thoughts make me chuckle, I can’t help but grin, Does a young man still water at Qosköl’s* inn? Will a girl come by to fetch water anew? When alone, will their hearts beat with joy, too? In the early spring, does love still unite, Are two swans still gracing the lake, pure and white? Will the green grass still flourish, soft under the sky, Laid out like a carpet for lovers passing by? Do the cows still munch, full and satisfied, Does the tea boil swiftly, with bubbles that glide? By the way, our old men used to proclaim, There’s oil in Mylkymbay, they’d say with no shame. Now gods arise, from the tales of mankind, All misfortune comes from those we’ve maligned. Dear friend, let’s keep quiet, for others to hear, Let’s not speak of the oil that’s close and so near! Zhem* - name of river Shomishkol, Qosköl** - name of lakes