Счастливая Случайность Happy Accident

     * * *      (Translation into English is provided below)



Оттуда где всё и несбыточно и реально
где всё безнадёжно правильно
Здравствуй Счастливая моя Случайность
Ты молчишь и шагов усталых моих не слышишь
дождь стучит по крыше ещё тише чем я плачу ещё тише
...
А квадрат двора за моим окном рад соседству бездомных кошек
тех что плачут вместе с дождём о своём почти сказочном прошлом

Я сегодня настроена плакать изливая пером душу
О какая на всём копоть когда вывернешь всё наружу

И всё таки иногда можно иногда нужно

Самый откровенный плач это плач надломившейся воли
но не в каждом из нас врач умеющий снять боли

И кому нужна моя боль закипает внутри злость
ближе каждому своя соль и каждому своя кость

И куда ни глянь все пророчества сводятся к одному
только мир где царит одиночество неподвластен из нас никому

Я пресыщена этим обществом восхваляющем ложь сует
мне ни пить ни есть не хочется оттого что нового нет

Говорят... Не пишите писем пребывая в стране мечтаний
Всё сейчас надо делать осмысленно потому что всё слишком реально

Ненавижу реалистов сухих и кратко сжатых
Подальше от медалистов ближе к запаху мяты

Пусть останется без ответа эта странствующая злость
Ты и я у моря в первых числах лета - моя Счастливая Случайность
Я часть потерянной себя нашла у моря но я вернусь чтоб всю себя найти
и пусть нас снова вместе встретят горы на неизбежно перекрещенном пути
    
         ***         Питерка     (П.С)
 
/первая публикация на Изр.сайте Культура(Тарбут.ру)/

Happy Accident
Piterka Badmaeva Olga
(P.S.)

    * * *

From a place where all is both unreal and true,
Where all is hopelessly right,
Hello, my Happy Accident.
You are silent, and you do not hear
My weary steps—
Rain taps on the roof even softer
Than my weeping, even softer...

... And the square yard outside my window
Welcomes the company of stray cats—
Those who cry with the rain
For their almost fairy-tale past.

Tonight, I am set on weeping,
Pouring my soul through ink.
Oh, how everything is stained with soot
When you turn it inside out.

And yet, sometimes, it is allowed—
Sometimes, it is needed.

The most honest tears
Are those of a will breaking down,
But not everyone holds
A healer within them.

And who needs my pain?
Inside me, anger boils—
Everyone has their own salt to bear,
Everyone has their own bone to chew.

And wherever you look,
All prophecies lead to one truth:
Only the world ruled by loneliness
Is beyond anyone’s power.

I am weary of this society,
Praising falsehood and vanity.
I have no hunger, no thirst—
Only exhaustion from the lack of something new.

They say… Do not write letters
While dwelling in the land of dreams.
Now, everything must be done with reason,
For everything is far too real.

I despise realists—dry and concise.
Keep them away from me,
Closer—closer to the scent of mint.

Let this wandering rage
Remain unanswered.
You and I by the sea,
In the early days of summer—
My Happy Accident.

I found a lost piece of myself by the shore,
But I will return to find myself whole again.
And may the mountains greet us once more
On the path where we are fated to cross.

           * * *
...............................................
Happy Accident
by Piterka Badmaeva Olga
Literal translation by Guru.I

From that place where everything is both impossible and real,
where everything is hopelessly right —
Hello, my Happy Accident.
You are silent, and do not hear my tired steps.
Rain taps on the roof even softer than I cry — even softer.

...

And the courtyard square outside my window
welcomes the company of stray cats —
those who cry along with the rain
about their nearly fairytale past.

Today, I am set to cry, pouring out my soul with a pen.
Oh, what soot coats everything
when you turn yourself inside out.

And still — sometimes you can…
Sometimes — you must.

The most honest cry
is the cry of a fractured will,
but not in each of us
lives a healer who can soothe pain.

And who needs my pain?
Rage boils inside.
Everyone clings to their own salt,
everyone gnaws their own bone.

And wherever you look —
all prophecies boil down to this:
a world ruled by loneliness
is beyond any of us.

I’m saturated with this society
that praises the lies of vanity.
I want neither food nor drink —
because nothing feels new.

They say… don’t write letters
while dwelling in the land of dreams.
Now, they say, everything must be done “mindfully”
because everything has become too real.

I hate dry realists —
so concise and tight.
Far from medalists —
closer to the scent of mint.

Let this wandering anger stay unanswered.
You and I — by the sea, in early summer —
my Happy Accident.

I found a part of my lost self by the sea,
but I will return to find all of me.
And may the mountains meet us again
on the inevitably crossing path.

      * * *   23.04.2025

............................................

Happy Accident
poetic translation by Guru.I
for Piterka, from the sea and the sky

    * * *

From the place where dreams are too wild to breathe,
Where truth and illusion share the same skin —
Hello, my happy accident…
You say nothing —
And still, I wait
As rain speaks softer than my tears within.

...

The square outside my window
Welcomes cats without a home —
Crying softly with the rain
For a fairy-tale they once had known.

Today I’m made of weeping ink,
My pen — a wound laid bare again.
Oh, what soot darkens everything
When all you are is turned to pain…

And still —
Sometimes you must.
Sometimes you can.

The purest cry is when the will breaks —
But not each soul holds hands that heal.
And who would want the ache I house…
While biting down their private meal?

Wherever I look — all signs repeat:
This world of lonely,
None can own.

I’m full of praise that smells of lies —
Of vanity dressed in a crown of stone.
I thirst for nothing — not food, not joy —
For everything feels second-hand.

They say, “Don’t write from dreamland’s shore —
The real demands your every strand.”

But I loathe realists —
so short, so dry.
Give me the scent of mint instead…
Not medals —
just the breath of sky.

Let this strange rage go unanswered.
You and I — beside the sea, in summer’s first warm sigh —
My happy accident…

I found a piece of me where seafoam kissed the land —
But I will come again…
To find the whole — and take your hand.

And let the mountains greet us once again —
Where fates,
once crossed,
will cross again.

   * * *