The Komsomol Will Not live Again

Their faces are wrinkled, scribbled in lines, Old men in Parliament still cling to their shrines. Like sparrows on wires, all gathered and still, Basking in sunlight, as if time stands still. Recalling their feasts, and what they have drank, Like cows, they regurgitate all that they’ve thank. “If you don’t touch me—I don’t touch you,” with glee, But resentful of others who dare to agree. They duck from the cameras, avoiding the glare, Hiding from each other, lost in despair. When one makes a break, it’s a scandalous sight, Struggling to find the door in the night. Innocent bloodshed stains the ground so vile, The last hope of mankind extinguished in a while. In the massacre of yesteryear’s red, Countless lives vanished, unnumbered, now dead! Our brave ones were shot, our nation laid bare, Millions starved, while the tyrants would glare. What did the red communist give to our kin? Only disaster, and suffering within! So many homes crushed beneath the harsh weight, Echoes of those days still haunt us with fate. In the massacre led by yesterday's reds, The Komsomol's violence still lingers and spreads. Deep in our veins, the bondage has thrived, My Kazakh land never could have survived. Those who celebrated the Komsomol’s reign, Still linger among us, though much has been slain. Mourn for them! Celebrate the century, if you must, But there’s no turning back, there’s no hope or trust. The people’s curse echoes, as lives fade away, The Komsomol will not rise again, come what may. Komsomol - The youth union