Sons of Our Land

Don’t mind my rough manners, brothers, It couldn’t be any other, In lands where we stand under The harsh sun’s blazing cover. Whoever steps foot here soon calms their zeal, When they’ve faced Naryn’s heat—its fiery ordeal. Not a mountain, not even a tree you’ll find, Just mirages rippling, fooling the mind. On bald, barren plains, dry winds blow, Dust rains like storms, summer’s cruel show. Not a drop to quench the parched soul’s plea, A dry land’s endless, harsh decree. Weeks of storms whip rocks to foam, Yet you’ll yearn for those mirages alone. You’ll lose your way, no roads remain, To reach small villages hidden in pain. When salt crusts the white expanse of the plain, It looks like frozen seas, a glacier’s domain. Your heart will shudder, ready to burst, When sandstorms charge with relentless thirst. Even if you’re brave, don’t mock my tone, For many souls weep, this land their throne. Guided by sand-hawks to barren clay, The lost find nothing but endless gray. Had the weather been kinder to these parts, Our boys might have softer, gentler hearts. They’d greet you politely, humble and shy, With faces untouched by the wind’s cruel sigh. But such dreams are a laughable jest, For here the storm-laden skies never rest. The hearts of the West’s sons never stir, Unyielding, like the winds that confer. To be different here is an impossible feat, For our land’s fire shapes us, bitter and fleet.