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Tamga by Masguda Shamsutdinova
Every sound that wraps us in its embrace is music, a melody woven from the world’s own breath. Even silence, that quiet muse, hums its subtle song. In the trembling rustle of aspen leaves, a tremolo quivers, alive with whispers; beneath the bright, plucked notes of crickets’ pizzicato, petals bend in delicate dance. The drum’s brazen roar flashes like burnished copper, a gleam in the air.
In the spirit of Balmont’s eternal verse, I am the ceaseless wind, forever singing, forever spring when my voice takes wing. The mounds of my childhood drift past, soft as memory’s haze, carried on the playful chant of “Chypchyk, ochyp chyk” - a lullaby’s tender game for an infant’s ear. Dau Ani, the Great Mother, calls through time’s vastness, her voice a thread in the creak of the arba, the cart that bears me toward the springs of my ancestors’ souls.
Moң - Tamga, the sacred phonemes of my native tongue, rise like stars to order the chaos swirling around me. They clear a path, luminous and sure, guiding my heart’s quiet yearning toward the miracle of sinking deep into Sound’s eternal tide.
Masguda Shamsutdinova
All sounds that envelop us weave a symphony divine,
Even silence hums its own soft, secret chime.
In the rustling leaves of aspen, tremolo does play,
While crickets, with pizzicato bright, test petals’ tender sway.
The drum’s bold thunder gleams with brazen might.
Echoing Balmont’s muse, I am the ceaseless breeze,
Forever singing, ever spring when song’s my ease.
The barrows of my childhood drift in fleeting streams,
“Chypchyk, ochyp chyk”—a babe’s sweet sound-dreams.
Dau Ani, Great Mother, calls through time’s embrace,
The creaking arba rolls, bearing me to ancestral springs’ grace.
Moң—Tamga, the phonemes of my native tongue align,
Taming chaos’ swirl, they clear a path divine.
They draw me to the miracle, the plunge into Sound’s core,
Where wonder’s pulse resounds forevermore.
By Masguda
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