“Türk Destanı”

Beneath the vaulting sky of steppe and sun,  
Where ancient winds in whistling currents run,  
A tale is told that stirs in each heart's core—  
The Türk Destanı, echoing evermore.

Upon the plains where wolf and eagle roamed,  
A people rose, by distant thunder honed.  
Their banners blazed as red as setting light;  
Their horses’ hooves turned dusk to dust at night.

Hakan with gaze as keen as hunting bird,  
With crescent blades and sovereign, solemn word,  
Led tribes through silence, ice, and searing flame—  
Yet everywhere, the steppes recalled their name.

Ergenekon’s deep vale, the forge of fate,  
Where iron bound their hope, and would not break.  
A smith with hammer, striking ancient stone,  
Freed kin from prisoned peaks, and made them one.

The Orkhon stones still whisper victory,  
Each rune a river flowing to the sea  
Of memory—Turkic, proud, undimmed and wild,  
The legacy of mother, father, child.

Wolf spirit, guiding through the smoky haze,  
Found paths where none had walked in older days.  
From Altai’s peaks to Anatolian sand,  
The Turks pressed forth—a fiercely dreaming band.

Even as apple blossoms fill the air  
In springtime, singing stories everywhere,  
So does the Türk Destanı rise anew—  
A tale of hope, of stars, and skies of blue.

O sons and daughters, heed the song that rings:  
You ride the wind, you soar on eagle wings.  
For though the empires fade and edges rust—  
The Türk Destanı lives in every trust.

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