Songs of Ismentsy

A cycle of poems «Whispers of Mari El»

Beneath the eaves where swallows sleep,
And time has worn the wooden steep,
A single note still dares to climb -
From ash and silence… the song of Ismentsy.

No crowds remain, no fires blaze,
But deep within, the old blood stays.
Though roofs have caved and paths are lost,
The wind recalls what words were tossed.

Sing the songs of Ismentsy -
Where birches guard eternity.
Where children danced on harvest grass,
And gods replied when prayers would pass.
Now shadows stretch and houses lean,
But dreams still stir beneath the green.
Though none may speak what used to be,
The land still sings the songs of Ismentsy.

I found my grandmother’s scarf one spring,
Caught in the fence where sparrows sing.
It smelled of smoke and rye and rain,
Of lullabies through windowpane.
She never left, not truly gone -
Her voice lives in the rising dawn,
In every step on frozen ground,
In every name without a sound.

No crowds remain, no fires blaze,
But deep within, the old blood stays.
Though roofs have caved and paths are lost,
The wind recalls what words were tossed.

Sing the songs of Ismentsy -
Where birches guard eternity.
Where children danced on harvest grass,
And gods replied when prayers would pass.
Now shadows stretch and houses lean,
But dreams still stir beneath the green.
Though none may speak what used to be,
The land still sings the songs of Ismentsy.

They paved the road beyond the hill,
And called it progress, called it will.
But in the grove where elders knelt,
A boy once carved a sun with felt.
He hummed a tune his mother knew -
A Mari hymn in morning dew.
And though no church now lights the dark,
That melody still leaves its mark.

Oh, let the drum return again,
Let girls wear crowns of leaf and flame.
Let every stone recall the dead,
Who fed the soil with bread and breath.
If all we have is memory,
Then let it roar like stormy sea.
For even when the world forgets -
A village lives in silences.

So when the stars align above,
And stillness wraps the fields in love,
Lean close… and you might hear:
A trembling voice, both far and near.
Not loud - but true, through snow and wrack -
The fading, rising, songs of Ismentsy.