Call of Yoshkar-Ola

A cycle of poems «Whispers of Mari El»

When snow falls soft on ancient roofs,
And silence walks through empty proofs
Of lives once lived in song and flame -
I hear your name… and feel no shame.

Not for the tears. Not for the pain.
But for forgetting, once, your name.

The streets grow wide, the signs grow cold,
New voices speak in tongues untold.
Yet deep beneath the pavement's weight,
An old heart beats beneath the gate.

Yoshkar-Ola, I hear your call,
Soft as dusk and sharp as thaw.
You rise in dreams I can't let go -
A lullaby through years of snow.
Your windows glow like amber eyes,
Reflecting both our hopes and lies.
Though time may paint you gray and small -
You're still the only home I call.

I left at dawn with heavy boots,
Chasing lights and distant roots.
They said, “That city? Just a dot -
No future there, no rising spot.”
But every mile pulled harder back,
Like roots still wrapped around my track.
And in the noise, one voice stayed clear:
"Come home. The pines are waiting here."

The streets grow wide, the signs grow cold,
New voices speak in tongues untold.
Yet deep beneath the pavement's weight,
An old heart beats beneath the gate.

Yoshkar-Ola, I hear your call,
Soft as dusk and sharp as thaw.
You rise in dreams I can't let go -
A lullaby through years of snow.
Your windows glow like amber eyes,
Reflecting both our hopes and lies.
Though time may paint you gray and small -
You're still the only home I call.

I walked the park where children played,
Their laughter bright, their games unfrayed.
An elder sat with weathered hands,
Carving a horse from fallen strands.
He looked at me and softly said:
"You carry something from the dead -
A name, a tune, a hidden spark…"
Then whispered: "Don’t forget the dark."

For every road that leads away,
Ten thousand memories hold their sway.
The church bell rings a double tone -
For those who left, and those alone.
The Volga flows, but so does grief -
We love in silence, find relief
In songs half-sung, in words unsaid…
Like prayers above the city’s head.

Now I return when spring returns,
Where fireweed through concrete burns.
No fanfare. No parade. No call.
Just lilacs by an old stone wall.
And as the evening wraps the square,
I breathe the air… and know I’m there.
Not just in flesh, but blood, and all -
Yoshkar-Ola, I hear your call!