Ïëà÷ ìîèõ âîñïîìèíàíèé crying. my memories

08.11.2023 ÒÅËÜ-ÀÂÈ         
                (Translation into English is provided below)
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    ÏÈÒÅÐÊÀ                ÒÅËÜ-ÀÂÈÂ 08.11.2023 ã.

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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
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