Poem by Kairat Duissenov Parman
I’m writing and looking
At every dimension of the universe,
I know, I’m just spoiling ink of my pen,
And wisdom too says ‘No’;
My labour from dawn to dusk dont pay me
Even though I keep myself busy like a bee,
Should I look like a lazy man?
My inner-self says ‘No’.
Yes, there had been time,
When the government valued our work,
It paid us for what we wrote,
Though we did not earn enough,
Yet at least something was there for us
Now we no longer enjoy ourselves today
S if everything has faded away.
My profession was writing articles
In the newspapers,
And I sincerely earned a living out of it.
When we got our independence,
I began to write
But not with as much desire as I did before,
Writing accrued to me as a disease,
I could not stop
Even when I was left unpaid,
I was not used to buying and selling
The new work,
I’m still following my dream.
You are a gift to me from God,
Although you did not gine me material wealth,
Yet you are sacred to me.
Though my clothes wear out and I’m starved all days,
Yet I shall always be with you,
Because God has given you to me as a pride
My pen, your pen, our pen