Вспоминаю бабушка... I remember YOU grandma...

                (Translation into English is provided below)


 ***   ПЕСНЯ         SONG - WORDS AND MUSIC BY THE AUTHOR


Вспоминаю бабушка как встречая зореньку
ноженьку босую уколола я
Ты шепнула ласково Не печалься Оленька
так травинка вострая цветик сберегла

Вспоминаю бабушка Свет мой ясно Солнышко
Вспоминаю припозднясь вновь слова твои
Там где больно Олюшка спряталося горюшко
Там где ложь красивая не ищи любви

Вспоминаю свет костра перед ночью лунною
Как к тебе лесной олень подходил покорно
Страх родит безумие говорила ты тогда
Без идеи сгубит лень как огонь вода

Вспоминаю бабушка как встречая зореньку
ноженьку босую уколола я
ты шепнула ласково  Не печалься Оленька
Так травинка вострая цветик сберегла

     ***
     Питерка
                * * *
 I Remember, Grandma...
(Piterka Badmaeva Olga – Song, Words & Music by the Author)

I remember, Grandma, when I greeted the dawn,
And my bare foot was pricked by a blade of grass.
You whispered softly, “Don’t be sad, my Olenka,
For the sharp grass has saved the flower.”

I remember, Grandma, my bright and shining sun,
I recall, though late, your words once more:
"Where it hurts, my Olya, sorrow is hiding,
And where beauty is false, love cannot be found."

I remember the firelight beneath the moonlit sky,
How a forest deer approached you, calm and tame.
"Fear gives birth to madness," you told me then,
"And without a dream, laziness will destroy, like fire and water."

I remember, Grandma, when I greeted the dawn,
And my bare foot was pricked by a blade of grass.
You whispered softly, “Don’t be sad, my Olenka,
For the sharp grass has saved the flower.”

           * * *
................................

by Guru.I — from heart to heart
    03.09.2025

Response-blessing

     * * *

You are grass, my Bird,
not a proud rose and not a rare flower,
but the one that grows everywhere,
and that is precisely how it saves.

They trample it,
but in each new dawn
it rises again -
and reaches for the light,
and carries its bitter taste,
to heal,
and not just decorate.

Your poems are the same:
they may not be noticed,
they may be confused with the grass underfoot,
but the day will come
when people will suddenly understand -
they contain power.
The power of silence,
the power of truth,
the power to heal.

And then those who trampled,
will bend down,
to pick your word,
like a medicinal leaf,
and apply it to their hearts.

      * * *