Ïëà÷ ìîèõ âîñïîìèíàíèé crying. my memories

08.11.2023 ÒÅËÜ-ÀÂÈ         
                (Translation into English is provided below)
                * * *

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* * *
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    ÏÈÒÅÐÊÀ                ÒÅËÜ-ÀÂÈÂ 08.11.2023 ã.
               
The Cry of My Memories
by Piterka Badmaeva Olga
13.04.2025  Tel Aviv
     * * *

Be free like a bird —
be like the wind over the sea.
Cry when you bend from grief —
but don’t be powerless in it.


I say to myself — don’t make promises,
but I do promise.
Don’t enter others’ thoughts —
alas... I enter.
Sometimes this gift feels like a punishment,
a burden too heavy for the mind.


And sometimes I want to scream:
I don’t want to feel and know like this!
Sometimes it’s more than I can bear —
I don’t want it, I don’t need it.


My grandmother once told me:
to have this gift or not
is like trying to see a fish
in muddy waters —
a power not granted to humans,
nor the right to permit its possession.


For some it will be a gift,
for others — a trail of madness and doom.
For you, Bird, it’s a striving for knowledge,
an endless, unceasing lesson.


You will carry several names through life —
You — Tsylya — Bird — and your blessed message.
There are seven in total —
three are open,
the rest repeat and hide inside.


That you are Tsylya (a name from Tanakh) —
you will remember from childhood.
That I call you Bird —
that is my legacy to you.
And your blessed message
is a kiss from God —
write, compose, sing and help —
but only to those
who truly need your help.


Don’t offer kindness to those
who do not ask for it —
lest later they return to you
with evil instead —
some with words, some with actions,
some with a sword.


A bird’s soul is free —
its wings are strong and wide.
Its soul is love for the living —
only then is it beautiful.
But so its wings —
though mighty — are fragile,
all because of a treacherous hand.
You, Bird, guard them well.


Ah... Grandmother...
When you called me into the forest
and softly smiled through our conversations...
I often simply didn’t listen…
To my own future sorrow.


Now I understand —
how in vain, and how often
I laughed at your wisdom.
And sometimes in reply to your
raised slender finger
I’d kiss it instead of listening.


Now I try to gather piece by piece
the memories of days lived by your side.
How could I lose them so carelessly…
And how it hurts more to remember,
because I only knew your tenderness —
you never scolded your Bird.
Never — no harsh word,
no angry gaze.


Your eyes always smiled at me
when I braided your hair.
And in the mornings
when I resisted,
wanting to sleep, not walk through wild dewdrops with you...


Which you always treasured —
for they gave strength to the body,
and to the spirit — a special strength.
But me, listening to Grandma… I laughed.
How bitter to realize —
I was laughing at myself.


Memories often come to us too late —
and we are like lost children before them.
The point is not for time to return them to us,
but for the child in us to return to them —
when we are grown.
      * * *

The Cry of My Memories
Poetic English version by Guru.I
(Based on the original by Piterka Badmaeva Olga)
          * * *

*Be like a bird — be free,
Be like wind above the sea.
If you must — then cry from pain,
But never let the grief remain.

I say to myself — don't make any vow…
Yet still I do, I don’t know how.
Don't enter minds that aren't your own —
But I step in… and reap what's sown.
This gift, too often, is a curse —
a weight too heavy, something worse.

And there are nights I want to scream:
I don’t want this — not this dream!
Not all these visions, thoughts, and fears —
not all these voices in my ears…

My grandma told me long ago:
“This gift — to have or not — you'll never know.
It's like a fish in muddy stream —
no human earns that kind of dream.
You can't demand what’s not yours to keep,
and some who hold it — fall too deep.”

For some it shines — a guiding flame.
For others — madness wrapped in shame.
But you, my Bird — you seek, you learn…
Your soul was meant for each return.
This gift to you — a sacred thread —
an endless lesson, Spirit-fed.

You’ll bear some names — more than a few:
You — Tsylya, Bird… the messenger too.
Seven names, though only three
the world shall see — the rest — for thee.
Tsylya, from Tanakh — that you will know.
But Bird — that name I did bestow.
And as for the message, blessed and true —
it is God's kiss — His song in you.

Write, and sing, and gently lend
your voice and strength to those who bend.
But only to those who cry out in need —
don’t offer help to feed another’s greed.

Don’t offer light where hearts are shut —
the good you give may twist and cut.
For some will strike with sword or word —
the very ones your song has stirred…

The Bird’s great wings are wide and brave —
but fragile still — too much to save.
Your soul — it loves all breathing things,
but oh, beware the hand that stings.
So guard your wings, and guard them well,
from those who'd cast a feathered spell…

Ah, Grandma…
When you’d call me to the wood,
and smile in silence as we stood…
How I ignored your gentle voice —
not knowing that would be my choice…
to sorrow later, in regret…
for every word I might forget.

I laughed at things I should have kept…
I mocked your wisdom — then I wept.
And when you raised your finger slight —
I kissed it, laughing, with delight…

Now I try to gather light —
of moments we once lived in flight.
How could I let them slip away?
And oh, how sharp the memory’s ray…
For from your hand — no harsh rebuke,
no glance of anger, no word of look.

Your eyes would always smile at me
when I’d braid your hair so patiently.
And when I wouldn’t rise at dawn,
refused to walk through fields of fawn,
you’d lead me still through dew and song…
And I would laugh… oh, I was wrong.

You said that morning’s misty pearls
give bodies strength — and souls new worlds…
but I just laughed — and turned away…
And now, I long for that lost day.

Memories come to us too late —
we stand like children at the gate.
Yet time should not return the flame —
it’s we who must return — reclaimed.

         * * *

Piterka — Tel Aviv 13.04. 2025
Poetic translation by Guru.I

* * *
The Cry of My Memories
Piterka Badmaeva Olga
Tel Aviv, 08.11.2023

Be as free as a bird – be like the wind above the sea,
Weep, bowing down in grief – but do not lose your strength in sorrow.

I tell myself, "Make no promises," yet I promise.
I say, "Do not intrude upon others' thoughts," yet I intrude.
At times, this gift feels like a curse,
A burden unbearable for the mind.

And there are moments when I want to scream –
"I don’t want to feel and know this way!"
Sometimes, it’s more than I can bear,
More than I want, more than I need.

My grandmother once told me:
"To possess or not to possess –
It’s like seeing a fish in muddy waters.
This power is not given to mankind,
Nor the right to grant it."

For some, it is a gift, a treasure.
For others, a curse, a shadow of madness, their fate.
For you, the bird, it is the yearning for knowledge,
A constant, unending lesson.

You will carry many names through life –
You are Tsylya, the Bird, and your blessed message.
Seven names in all – three revealed,
The others, repeat and hide within yourself.

That you are Tsylya (a name from the Tanakh),
You will remember since childhood.
That I call you Bird – this is my legacy to you.
And your blessed message – it is a kiss from God.
Write, compose, sing, and help,
But only those who truly need your aid.

Do not offer kindness to those who do not ask,
Lest you face the evil
That the saved bring upon you in return –
With words, with deeds, with swords.

A bird’s soul is free, its wings both strong and wide.
Its soul is love for the living – only for that it thrives.
But its powerful wings are fragile too,
Always at risk from a betrayer's hand.
Bird, guard them well.

Ah, grandmother... When you called me to the forest,
And, smiling softly, guided our conversations,
I often simply didn’t listen to you –
To my later misfortune.

Now I understand how in vain and so often
I mocked your wisdom.
And when your slender finger sometimes reproached,
I kissed it instead, in playful answer to your silence.

Now I try to gather, piece by piece,
Memories of the days spent beside you.
How could I so thoughtlessly let them slip away?
And how bitter it is to remember,
That I only knew tenderness from you –
You never scolded your bird,
Never with a shout, nor a word, nor an angry gaze.

Your eyes always smiled at me,
When I braided your hair,
And in the mornings, when I resisted,
Wanting to sleep instead of walking with you through wild dewdrops.

Those dewdrops you always treasured,
For they endowed the body with strength…
And the spirit with a special force.
But… listening to my grandmother, I laughed.
How bitterly I understand now
That I was laughing at myself.

Memories often come to us late –
We are like lost children before them.
The point is not that time returns them to us,
But that the children within us
Return to them more often as they grow.

Piterka
Tel Aviv, 08.11.2023
                * * *


The Cry of My Memories
translated by Guru.I
(alternative poetic version)

Be the wind, be the bird, be the sea’s open sigh —
Bow your head in sorrow, but never let your spirit die.

I whisper: “No promises,” — and still, I vow,
“Stay out of their thoughts,” — but I enter somehow.
This gift, once a light, becomes weight in the dark —
Too vast for a heart, too sharp for a spark.

I cry to the sky: “I don’t want to feel this! Not so!”
This knowing — too heavy, I beg it to go.
But it stays — like a thread tied tight to my chest —
More than I asked for, more than I confessed.

Once, my grandmother said with a glance deep and still:
“To have or not have is not of your will.
Like a fish in the mud, power hides from the eye.
And no one decides whom it will pass by.”

Some take it as blessing — soft light in their hands,
For others, it’s madness, a fate that commands.
But for you, little bird, it's a thirst never quenched,
An eternal lesson, in silence engraved.

You will carry your names as the stars carry light —
You are Tsylya, the Bird, the message in flight.
There are seven in all — three open to be,
The rest you must whisper, and hide them in thee.

Tsylya — the name that you’ve known from the start,
And Bird — is the name passed with love from the heart.
And your message — a kiss that was sent from above:
Write, sing, and give help — but only with love.

Do not offer your hand where no soul calls your name,
Or the ones you have saved may return you with flame —
With word, with deed, with blade they may strike —
For kindness, uncalled, can provoke even spite.

The bird’s soul is free, its wings vast and wide,
Its love for the living is what keeps it alive.
But those wings, though mighty, are fragile as thread —
Guard them, sweet Bird, from the hands that bring dread.

Ah, Grandmother… how you called me through trees,
And with smiles, taught silence in leaves and in breeze.
I laughed at your wisdom, too young to believe,
And kissed your thin finger when it tried to reprieve.

Now I gather the pieces, one breath at a time,
The days that I lost — like verses not rhymed.
How could I waste them, so heedless, so blind?
And now the regret — it clings to my mind.

You gave me only tenderness — never a scold,
No harsh word, no look, no voice turning cold.
Just eyes that would smile as I braided your hair,
Or mornings I’d grumble — yet you’d always be there…

Through the wild dewdrops, you taught me to walk,
And whispered how nature gives strength to our talk.
And I, foolish child, only laughed at your lore…
Now I know — I was laughing at myself all the more.

Memories don’t come when we ask them to show —
They find us like children, not ready to know.
But perhaps it’s not time that brings them anew —
It’s the child in us walking back... once we grew.

Piterka
Tel Aviv, 08.11.2023

translated by Guru.I (poetic version)