Poetry: Ashraf AboArafe
Beneath a sky with no horizon’s end,
Where the dawn spills gold on the sleeping land,
A voice arose — clear as the wind,
Strong as the hooves that shake the sand.
Abai!
Keeper of truth,
Singer of light,
The dombyra’s friend,
The conscience of night.
He spoke to the soul like a long-lost flame,
Calling each heart by its secret name.
“Choose wisdom, not silver;
Choose virtue, not pride;
Let knowledge be your saddle,
And the steppe be your guide.”
From his hand, verses bloomed like spring,
From his heart, songs the skylarks sing.
He bridged the yurt to the world beyond,
Through Pushkin’s words and Goethe’s bond.
And now —
Through the pulse of a hashtag’s flight,
Through young voices rising in morning light,
Through the hush at his monument’s stone embrace,
Through the flowers that lean to kiss his face —
Abai walks again.
The dombyras wake on Nurly Zhol,
Strings like rivers in silver roll,
Dancing to melodies older than rain,
Woven from joy, threaded with pain.
And when the sun folds its golden hand,
The Philharmonic becomes the land —
“Abai’s World” in music unfurled,
A heartbeat carrying the soul of the world.
For in his song there’s a road and a fire,
In his silence, a dream that will never tire.
