The world needs you

Getting up at four in the morning, a habit instead of a clock.
Milk the cows, light the stove, the world is old and harsh.
Dreams are not a luxury; they cannot be hidden in the folds of chintz.
Only juice from the berries on the board when no one is angry.
All life is tireless work, woven into knots.
Other people's children, your hearth and hands are so strong.

Eighty years is a long way home
Where the brush in the hand finds its peace.
And the colors warm brighter than any hearth,
When talent awakens in weary hands.

Decades have passed, as if one day.
Five out of ten, and the husband was hidden by a shadow.
And the silence pressed in the house, where the laughter had long died down.
Arthritis constrained her fingers, preventing her from sewing anymore.
The sister said: “Draw” to cure melancholy.
Without knowing the rules and canvases, taking paint and a board.

Eighty years is a long way home
Where the brush in the hand finds its peace.
And the colors warm brighter than any hearth,
When talent awakens in weary hands.

Seventy eight. Memory flowed like a river.
The forgotten world came to life under the brush and arm.
He'll sell it for a couple of dollars, so he'll have enough for food.
"Who is this?" “Just a grandma,” the rumor began to speak.
But the world saw warmth and grace in simplicity,
She wrote joy until one hundred and one, without ceasing to dream.

Eighty years is a long way home
Where the brush in the hand finds its peace.
And the colors warm brighter than any hearth,
When talent awakens in weary hands.

Let them say that your train left a long time ago,
That there is a window in the passport for talent.
But every wrinkle is a trace of storms and strong thunderstorms,
And in the heart is a garden that was waiting for spring for the brightest roses.

Eighty years is a long way home
Where the brush in the hand finds its peace.
And the colors warm brighter than any hearth,
When talent awakens in weary hands.

So don't be shy, honey, take your palette,
Or rest your tired palms on the keys.
Your voice, dance or poetry - the world needs them more.
After all, it’s never too late to become a symphony hostess.