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That Bird’s Name is Freedom by a young, far-promising Qazaq poet Duisenali Alimakyn 14+

That Bird’s Name is Freedom  by a young, far-promising Qazaq poet Duisenali Alimakyn -

Dear our readers, ‘Adebiet portal’ with great pleasure cooperates with talented and far-promising writers and poets from Qazaqstan, who writes in English and for this purpose we created a project under a title ‘Literature for pleasure’.

Hereby we propose to our readers’ attention a small piece of art, written by a young, far-promising Qazaq poet Duisenali Alimakyn, who writes a post-modern poetry.

We hope that you will be pleasantly surprised to discover his poetry.

Duisenali Alimakyn, born in 1989, a poet, translator, works at the Institute of Linguistics named after A.Baitursynuly. Author of the poem collection «The November Birds song».

The sun and moon

The sun asked «where's the moon's house?»

The moon asked «where's the sun's rays?»

The sun asked «who will sing the song of freedom?»

The moon asked « what is higher than mountain, than pure dignity?»


The sun asked « does innocent hearts burn in the fire?»

The moon asked « will the sun shine after the storm?»


I couldn’t answer the questions of the sun.

I couldn’t answer the questions of the moon.




I can teach them poems and songs.

I can tell them what I saw and

What I learned along the way.

I can try to tell them what is precious.

Yes, what is precious?

I should to know that.

And you?

They say I am the youngest poet on the Earth.

There is a great question in my heart

What is precious?

This Earth is ours

This garden we must tend.

These people we love.


Freedom Bird

This is a poem that came to me from the Stone Age Era

Known it the heavens and the Earth, the seas.


This is a poem that came to me from the sounds

Of the liberty song of freedom

Known it heroes who holding golden color spears

And the hoof horses.


So, the sky and the earth also constantly sing

And the birds.


That song name is Heartfelt.

That bird's name is Freedom.


When I left my homeland

The mountains hugged me;

The roads made me go for a long trip

The rivers hurry to the west

Old mum waved with tears…

My mother stood up and did not say anything,

The steppe symphony revived in my ears,

The Dombyra* sound heard from the

Neighboring house…

The black dog smelled my leg;

And the black horse tied on the sill.

While lightning made a game on the sky,

And dreams waved hands from a distance

Song for steppe written in my heart

When I left my homeland.




If not you, who?

If not now, when?

If not day, year?

If not here, where?


If not rain, what?

If not way, rock.

If not flower, thorn

If not fair, lie.


If not morning, night

If not dark, light.

If not hate, like

If not death, life.


If not sky, earth

If not winter, autumn

If not birds, clouds

If not theater, prison.




We will meet

That will happen

That might happen.


I will send you my heart-letters

I will have you thousands of kisses.

That will happen

That might happen.


I will give you a present that is made of clouds

I will write your name on my soul.

That will happen

That might happen.




The world is living in dark days

Black flowers full of streets are sad.


Black horse flying on my horizon

Owner is my soul and heart.


The voice of my heart – World`s breath

That voice came to night sky.

Black flowers hair of centuries footsteps

Black horse is – dancing shadow.

That shadow was on that side of my window.



I'm jealous without a cause,

But that is my heart's wish.

My handgrip brings

A lot of scented roses

Honey, give me a thousand kisses.


If you give me a thousand kisses

It would be a glowing to my darkening world.

Have you felt that my tears

Are my life's juices?

Because you've tightened my hand holding

Even more.


Your shining world

My one and only image

As the master hand shooting at us

Your voice became my heart's hymn.

My soul’s song to forever more.



She came back to say goodbye

The soul of spring, in the heart of Winter.


Accompanied by a dirt road,

I went along with nostalgia.


World damaged,

Moderated by a skinny soul.

Only one hope left,

Accompanied by a poem.


Grief set on fire,

Burned everyone left away from home.

I took the next truck

The fate of going along.




I call the mornings,

“The consolation”

As they bring long days.

Losing the dream,

It's nostalgia imprisoned.

Are those truthful things

A tribute of stone to embrace my city?

The poem is a silver smile,

A heart quake in shuddered structure.


Passion doesn't matter,

When one night is pretending to be

A whole month.

Depth is a black eye sea

When a star falls.


Please, don't say

That I can't go too far.

I'm flying off your shiny sky.

But never mind,

I won't fall apart.

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