Ode to the Darginian Göktürks
From the misted highlands of Dagestan,
where Dargin voices echo in stone valleys,
to the endless steppe where horse-hooves
beat the time of the sky’s own heartbeat —
they rode.
Iron under leather,
falcons circling above,
their banners stitched with the wind’s language,
half mountain, half steppe,
half memory, half fire.
Göktürks in spirit,
Dargin in blood,
they carried the silence of snow peaks
and the roar of the open plain
into every horizon they claimed.