The hills of the village grew from the mountains
The apples fell into the ditch.
Then he ran and entered the yard
My mother welcomed me – she was as thin as the road…
The red apples that started us
He bloomed early because of his ignorance.
Consciences are brought to the market
Paid the most expensive prices.
And I’m on the last flight to the city
I came in a hurry
I came in a rush
Thousands of debts
I came to break up
From a country whose dreams have not been burned.
And you say: “My daughter is in the city,
He is writing a poem for “my friend”.
This sand is the time when my dream boiled
That’s when I saw his strength.
O brave men,
Good luck
a million times
I was paralyzed in front of my thoughts.
I cried and cried:
“Fics are mediocre, thoughts are mediocre!”
…The slopes of the village grew from the mountains
It is rising and decorating the world.
Maybe if I stay “middle-class” in the city
This is the worst pain, the greatest pain.
I’m on the last flight to the city today
I came in a hurry, I came in a rush…
Author and translate : Obloqulova Rayhonabonu Nopoʻlat daughter of “Qizlar ovozi”, chief coordinator of Kason district, member of Kazakhstan’s “Qoʻsh qanot” writer’s union