TRANSLATED FROM THE KAZAKH BY JAKE ZAWLACKI
A Writer’s Joy
A word alone I might not take, I might,
An ear alone I might not warn, I might.
Simplicity isn’t simple,
Maybe words didn’t fit, maybe they did.
To which purpose will I arrive,
Not just another, maybe failure.
In this world I have my love, my passion—
Although small, I’ll leave my mark.
To the Enemy: Words of the Fall
The spirit loses interest,
Static, unmoving.
The body loses interest,
Unsuffering, beautiful.
The people lose interest,
Trusting each other.
Lies rise in power,
Truth defeated, exhausted.
The garden unbound,
A promise broken.
Fate forsaken,
Food stolen from me.
Disaster in the hunter,
Feet tripping.
Wolf’s slander
Danger at my heels.
The foe rolls his sleeves,
Knife sharpened, fired.
Of scabs, the crow, the vulture,
Foraging, grazing, hunting.
Unseen envy,
My mood smolders,
Masochistic evil
From scorpion tongue,
“Ah, it’s you!” a call
Mouth filled of blood.
Spirit opened in nearness
Youth poured from the eyes.
Deeds undivided,
Blade washed clean,
“An accident,”
Stabbing the heart, again . . .
Warm hide, I don’t know,
Shedding skin – is it true?
Unyielding ancient friend,
Walking transformed! . . .
To Pull
Sons: this is the path to wisdom.
Daughters: join, listen, watch.
Along this road grow many paths,
Will you look out for them?
Don’t douse the light, don’t leave the riches,
Kin, let’s seek, let’s find wisdom!
Also, read A City Without Women by Sakyajit Bhattacharya, translated from The Bengali by Adrija Ghosh, and published in The Antonym .
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Lovely translations!