Sounds rained from heaven.
Not insignificant words
like drizzle falling lightly
on steppe or Alpine slope,
but serious sounds:
fists of hail that reduced
the Sinai Mountain into
arid grains of sand.
But they did not understand.
Metalanguage still
precipitates into wars,
confusion reigns and
the vernacular is drowned
in Dead Seas of babble.
Semanticists argue over
the connotation of borders,
and megatons disrupt the heavens.
Still, they do not understand.
This measureless waste
Traversed alone
Of what does for a vagrant
Always bemoan.
Speak I not russian
Nor do, kazakh.
That heard of this wind species
Was it passed on
Through eagle's, harrier's quick
Decoding knack.
Reason, are you thinking twice?
Idea, freely roll.
Poison, pen, and paradise!
Grind the golden goal!
When do dreams hit deck deterred?
Carrion crow, thy bird.
When the winner comes in third!
Anguish, how you stirred!
Hell and Heaven, hither hie.
All good people lie?
Warrior wounded, thy cold cry!
Dismay means to die...
Tympani, tomorrow.
Roll like a river deep.
Source, sail through the sorrow.
Caiman, time to creep.
Weather? It gets cold outside.
Weakness? Best to hide.
Windmill? Charge and woe betide.
Wharf rats have no pride.
Jamboree, thy goers.
O party, hand out fun.
Lawn, best call thy mowers.
O sugar, best get spun.
Dark fire, with me one more time!
Burn in riddles black!
Breaker point, upon me rhyme!
Heart of mine, attack!
Gods of death, deal wisdom out!
Suffering, to come!
O steppe horseman, when to shout?
When you have no drum...
I was told Jews were colonists and white
I wondered how to test if that was right
So I looked up genes, a simple approach but bright
Found Jews are at least half Canaanite.
This was found by looking at more than one Neolithic mound.
Bodies, bones, before the Iron age, DNA could be found
I bet my know-it-all debater hadn't thought of looking at that
He looks at debate as throwing me on the mat.
Who belongs in Israel is an ongoing fight
Interestingly, the Arabic speakers are also part Canaanite
But the relationship with Jews is uneasy at best.
Still, there was a way to test.
Europe's prehistory can be tested too
Most residents died, we look for a clue
5000 years ago, some evidence it was disease
Eurasian steppe peoples took over the keys
If you admire Stonehenge, please know
The people who built it had nowhere to go
Most of their descendants were gone by 2000 B.C
No one at fault, seek the truth and be free.
I have lived before the clocks were wound,
When silence spoke and stars made sound.
My hands once etched in temple stone,
The prayers of kings, yet slept alone.
I knew the scent of burning leaves,
In Vedic dawns, beneath fig trees.
I sang where Nile met desert wind,
A priest of fire, a soul thick-skinned.
In Rome, I wore the thinker’s face,
In chains of thought, not bound by place.
In robes of law or sacred thread,
I judged the living and the dead.
A scroll, a blade, a feathered pen—
Each life I bled and breathed again.
In Florence I lit minds like flame,
But died unknown, without a name.
In shadowed courts of Genghis' reign,
I walked as ghost through steppe and plain.
I sought the Truth in every creed,
But never tamed the soul's deep need.
Through monks and maps, through ink and war,
I crossed the seas to distant shore.
Each time reborn with memory dim,
Yet haunted by the silent hymn.
Now here I stand, the circle tight,
With one last fire to birth the night.
I’ve seen the rise and fall of men—
But will I walk this Earth again?
In childhood, like a fluffy, white chick,
The vast steppe unfolded, so grand and thick!
When I grew up like a mountain, all in my sight,
Now it seems a palm's in my memory bright.
In the village, it fit right in my hand,
While cities raised me, made me understand.
Each corner of the world, as I roam and explore,
My childhood dreams burned up, wanting more.
From my journeys, I gather sweet delight,
I’ve wandered the globe, taking in every sight.
Yet when I compare it, all feels so small,
Next to my village, it doesn’t seem tall.
There are wonders unseen, so many to find,
The beauty before me, forever entwined.
But when I reflect, it’s clear to me now,
Nothing compares to my village somehow!
Blue Wolf...
A free people, like the wind they blow,
A generous steppe, a wondrous folk.
Today, like a young wolf, they whimper,
Suffering under the world's yoke.
The cruel century has surely made the people weep,
Casting fear.
It has taken away their strength and might,
Their spirit crushed, crumbled like flour,
You have departed, my dear land, lost to time!
Although the sky is cloudy, we have a clear direction,
We soar through the thick clouds or cloud disruption.
When the pure white clouds spread like a carpet,
We glide over them like seagulls in flight target.
It resembles the smoke of a steamboat,
The swirling cloud is approaching about.
I realized I had entered the West border,
Gazing intently at the shape of Earth order.
Everything looks even and featureless,
The gray steppe, the mountains, the winding dunes.
The ravines carve through relentless,
Like the wrinkles of an old person on Earth’s surface.
In the distance, a settlement waves,
Did the people there see us from the graves?
“I’ll be a pilot when I grow,” the boy dreams,
With that ambition, he set his sights!
No matter how vast the land may spread,
From the sky, it's just a palm instead.
When my feet touch the ground below,
I’ll be as small as that hand in tow!
Each one’s a giant, a tale to unfold,
A living treasure, richer than gold.
With hearts so vast, like the steppe they roam,
The boys of our village, as strong as stone.
Their eyes ablaze like springtime skies,
Pride unyielding, they’ll brook no lies.
Though fiery at times, they heed what’s right,
The boys of our village, steadfast in might.
They walk upright, heads held high,
Unbowed by rank, wealth, or lie.
Though passion burns, respect they show,
To elders they honor, wherever they go.
These boys I see in a shining light,
This is the truth, my judgment’s right.
And if you ask, “Where’s this place you call?”
It’s the Kazakh land—that’s our village, that’s all!
Though the sky was cloudy, the path was clear,
We soared through thick clouds, drawing near.
When white clouds spread like a soft carpet wide,
We glided above like a seagull in stride.
The clouds resembled a ship's smoky plume,
Drawing close, prepared to resume.
Westward I noticed our course to be,
Gazing at Earth's grand symmetry.
All seemed smooth, stretched far and vast,
The gray steppe, dunes, and mountains amassed.
Only the ravines with their rugged line,
Marked the land like an old face's sign.
From afar, a village waves its hand,
Did its people see us above their land?
Does a child dream, with ambition so strong,
To be a pilot, where dreams belong?
Though the land is endless, vast, and wide,
From the sky, it fits in a palm’s stride.
And when I return to the ground below,
I too may feel like a child, I know!
I am a son of this boundless country man,
I've come to tell the songs of the steppe rather.
When I stride on the soil of my native land,
I've returned as if I were born from my mother.
As if a warm blood flowed through,
My mind becomes clear and pure.
When step on the soil of native land true,
As if he was reborn from his mother.
Even though his hair was always straight,
Even though he was short and white rather.
When he came with his stick on the street,
The whole district was afraid of my father.
I don't know what makes you strong,
Mayor or Director jumped up from seat.
My father would not say one word them,
However, their hearts enormous beat.
Even though you have short legs foot,
You will scare many people keen.
With the pure feelings of childhood,
I embarrassed to be near him.
I often remember those times,
I don't know why I feel ashamed.
My father's lofty spirit these days,
A hot stream flows through my veins.
The air of his birthplace is the medicine,
If you don't breathe that air, everything is in vain.
Above all, on the battlefield of the soul,
My father stands tall like a towering mountain!
Among the people, as I roam,
I carry flaws and wins of my own.
Yet all the kindness people show,
My Homeland's dear wherever I go!
The endless steppe, the hills, the plain,
My Homeland heals my deepest pain.
If ancestors hadn't kept it free,
We’d taste the hell of tyranny!
Though life may strike and weigh me down,
I’ll never flee my native ground.
For every inch, their blood was shed,
I am the eye of the brave who bled!
For Homeland's sake, I’d give my soul,
The blue flag's grip shall be my goal.
Yet some who call for needless war,
Bring harm to those we most adore.
For fleeting fame, some stoop so low,
Their Homeland’s worth they’ll never know.
But like the ones who raised the sky,
None stands for Homeland as they try!
Meandering through the moonlit meadows,
the moonbeams cast magical mauve shadows;
The clair de lune cloaks the clouded clearing,
Arcane rays gleam in august appearing;
Thus enchants the round empyrean queen
with elysian echoes etched on the scene;
The land lighted by the lambent lantern
looks lush with luminous lunar pattern;
The celestial chandelier calmly charms
night's blue blooms without belligerent qualms;
The steppe sleeps under sentinel silver
who guards the grassland with glows that shimmer;
The pale white pearl projects peace on the plains,
Under her creamy care, no one complains.
I'm nothing else
that an intermediary
between healing and disillusionment...
I am unwritten verse
when I'm not understood...
I'm a steppe wolf howl
when I provoke strangeness...
I just wanted to be a simple door
that offers passage,
Window that shows landscapes...
I wanted to be answers
to all dreams
and daydreams, raptures
of ecstasy...
love and passion for
who needs,
however, I'm just
a bitter-sweet being
not blissful,
not overly sad,
I am only, Poet... !
When I'm dead, bury me
In the middle of the school yard, Wkona No. 4,
next to the bomb crater
so that I see the proud faces of my teachers
when they return;
and let me hear the students roar the national anthem.
From Kherson to the blue sea and to
Ukraine's steppe, I have joined the big family
that grants me the right to kill the
invading enemy huddled in its armored convoys to hell.
When I'm dead, don't forget to grant me the eulogy:
embraced death with open arms, embraced liberty,
a nice, sweet word.
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