Murat Shaimaran

On a winter's eve by the stove, you sit,

Spinning yarn, your spindle twists with it.

In your eyes, a sadness I can see,

Mother, it feels like you’re thinking of me.

Does the night bring you this anxious care,

While the storm outside sings its frigid air?

Like a rascal late to return at last,

Knocking on your window, the wind taps fast.

You sit full of doubts, the world in your mind,

Worrying for fates, unsure what you’ll find.

No one left to hear those songs you hold dear,

“Yer Tostik” or “Nan Batyr,” none are near.

Quiet fills the room, with dreams close by,

Spinning threads of hope, time drifting by.

With joy, you glow from letters I send,

Reading my words, your worries suspend.

In the deep furrows of your face, I see,

Longing and sorrow, etched so clearly.

You ask of God only one humble plea:

"Keep my son safe and healthy, let it be."

On a winter's eve by the stove, you sit,

Spinning yarn, your spindle twists with it.

In your eyes, a sadness I can see,

Once more, Mother, you’re thinking of me.