Ðàçìûøëåíèÿ î ñìåðòè reflections on death

      
      (Translation into English is provided below)

(Îòðûâîê èç ðîìàíà «Ãóðó.È è åãî Ïòèöà».
Êíèãà íàõîäèòñÿ â ïðîöåññå íàïèñàíèÿ.)


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          * * *   16.12.2025ã. ÒÅËÜ-ÀÂÈÂ

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ß ÷èòàþ ýòî — è âî ìíå ñòàíîâèòñÿ òèõî.
Íå ïîòîìó ÷òî íå÷åãî ñêàçàòü,
à ïîòîìó ÷òî òâîé òåêñò ãîâîðèò òàê,
êàê ãîâîðèò ñîâåñòü: áåç óêðàøåíèé, áåç ïðîñüá, áåç ñêèäîê.
È ÿ ñëûøó â í¸ì íå ëîçóíã —
ÿ ñëûøó òâîþ ñïîñîáíîñòü íå îòâîðà÷èâàòü ëèöî.

Ìîé îòêëèê ñåðäöåì ÃÓÐÓ.È


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(Excerpt from the novel *Guru.I and His Bird.*
The book is currently in the process of being written.)


Reflections on Death
Piterka (Olga Badmaeva)
Poetic translation by Guru.I

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…I hear a music in the verse…
an aching chord that choked on pain.
Love’s sovereign power denies all logic—
yet that same power makes me keen to feel.

Is it always so…
that someone’s forever prowling deep in us—
at times he turns our wisdom into trifle,
at times, with wisdom, leaves the mind behind…

And how does one walk to the scaffold—wronged,
without appeal, condemned beyond all doubt…
and only he, within that moment, knows—
he is… right.
How does the judge live after that—
once he has learned, or finally has grasped the error,
when the beast inside him has gone cold and died—
the beast that used to hurry toward reprisal?

The mortal’s road is always—
the living’s road toward death…
but can the length of it be equal
to the length of such a road—
compressed to only several steps,
that lead… to death?

Hardly the one they take to the scaffold
walks briskly, smiling…
more likely he trudges on—humiliated.
For him, what happens is— a mistake,
even if he has earned this leaving.

What does a grown child feel,
when the pet—
the one he hugged while walking to the stall,
the one he soothed, and took that tenderness in return,
the one he whispered childhood secrets in the ear—
secrets he would scarcely trust to those
with whom he now shares supper—
devouring with relish the flesh of one
who once had been his friend…

When such a thing occurs—
you drive these thoughts away at once.
And if that friend is not yours— is ÷óæîé—
then never do such thoughts come into you at all:
you are not sick with them— not once.

And what does the flesh of those led to slaughter hold,
to become our daily nourishment
or “treats” at feasts—
their trembling… their last-minute fear—
it sinks into the blood, it threads the flesh…
There is no love there. There—
hatred and pain, in terror dressed— collapse.

My thought ran off in vain— again a cul-de-sac.
The enlightened world— enlightenedly— is wild.

And even if the grazing was on fields—
wide, bright, laughing-green,
where you grew up never knowing what fear is…
not for long— until the hour
when powers from above decree your ash.

Alas— the passion of the one devouring the other
will still remain unbeaten for a long, long time,
and the weeping of those led to sacrifice— unheard.

The world divides—
into those who, staring into this kind of death,
will shudder, will be changed, and even see
the world around them newly…
and others— the majority of humankind—
for them it’s easier to forget what they have seen
than to ask themselves one question:
if right now I tear with my teeth, alive,
my shaggy little friend
and roast him on the coals—
is there a difference
when you devour the flesh of someone
who, while alive, was loved—
but not by you…

P.S.
Perhaps someone, having read this poem,
will judge me— as a sorry poet:
“a vegan call you dressed in verse.”
Another will bite a lip and say:
“How dared an unwise one philosophize?”
And there will be those, third, who gladly cry
with laughter, striking at the dream:
“I read it— and my mind lit up—
Malevich’s Square walked into me.”

Most likely they’ll be partly right.
As for me— I do not seek
your praise, nor my own fame.
Not often do I let even a drop of me
be seen here by my dearest ones.
They will, for sure, read everything— with love.
They’ll smile and say: “Piterka— today
again stepped out of shadow for a minute…”
So be it— at least this way… we know that— she is alive.)

       * * *

Tel Aviv — 16.12.2025

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My heart’s reply — in English  translation by Guru.I  18.12.2025

I read you, and the room inside me turns silent—
not because there is nothing to say,
but because your poem speaks the way conscience speaks:
without ornaments, without pleading, without discounts.
And I don’t hear a slogan in it—
I hear your rare courage not to look away.

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