SKY AND EARTH
The older I become, the closer I get to myself. The unnecessary shells are shed. The opinions of others aren't that important anymore.
My essence... it is still hiding somewhere inside, but it's not covered in the mess that is common norms and social standards, skewed looks and current trends.
What was important in the past is coming back.
The significance of a beloved one's smile.
The ability to keep silent, when you don't want to talk.
The bravery to speak out, when someone's act upsets you.
The chance to leave, if you feel the need to be alone.
We were all like that at the beginning. During childhood.
Then why are we so perplexed by the attention we give to information that we in reality do not need?
The herd instinct and consumerist cravings make us do absurd things.
They force us to judge.
To rate.
To take on someone else's mask.
To forget about ourselves.
To try to be like everybody else.
And suddenly, at some point, sadness arrives.
It's like a breath from the depths within.
The Earth is struggling with pain and hardship.
We overheated her.
We broke her up.
She’s sliced up and cut open.
Yet we want more. And more.
So that it's "cooler" than what the others have.
So that there's a lot of it.
We want that, what we don't actually need.
What for?
To be like everybody else!
What does it bring to you personally?
The confidence in having everything correct.
But what is "correct"?
What everybody else does and has!
Following this viscous cycle we run around like crazy rabbits on paramedics.
There's no time to think about how someone somewhere is waiting for you. Wanting to hear your voice. Run through your unruly hair with their hand.
Look into your murky eyes, tired from all that nonsense rush.
It's the wiser and the greater, who are waiting.
Children and the elderly.
Those who still haven't taken on, or have already disposed of, the extra weight.
What is left is an inhale.
A heavy and bitter, like love, inhale.
LM
The steppe flower
The sun gilded steppe.
Stone bal-bals*.
The road reaching beyond the horizon.
The wind sings its song without a beginning nor an end.
And the steppe flower.
How did it get here? Why?
Does the wind not bend you, trying to tear you off?
Does the harsh sun not burn you?
Have the hordes of wild horses not trampled you yet?
Why do you grow here, soft and delicate?
This land is for the strong and enduring.
What are you doing here?
Here wander strange people, with their households and herds.
Here pass the caravans of foreigners, with their goods.
Here lie some of the hardest roads in the world.
Here flow some of the most unsurpassable rivers in the world.
Here all over the steppe are scattered stones with scripture,
carved out thousands of years ago.
Here are birds with giant wings
wich can glide in the sky for hours.
Here horses can gallop
faster than the wind and go days without water.
Here roam spirit-legends and talk to me and the wind.
How can I miss all of this.
I must be here.
I am the steppe flower.
Степной цветок
Опаленная солнцем степь. Каменные Бал-балы.
Дорога уходящая за горизонт.
Ветер поет свою песню без начала и конца.
И степной цветок.
Как он здесь появился? Зачем?
Разве тебя не гнет ветер, пытаясь сорвать?
Разве тебя не жжет жестокое солнце?
Разве табуны диких лошадей еще не растоптали тебя?
Зачем ты растешь здесь, нежный и хрупкий?
Это земля для сильных и выносливых.
Что ты здесь делаешь?
Здесь кочуют странные люди, со своими жилищами и скотом.
Здесь проходят караваны чужестранцев, со своими товарами.
Здесь лежат самые трудные в мире дороги.
Здесь текут самые непокорные в мире реки.
Здесь по степи разбросаны камни с письменами,
высеченными тысячи лет назад.
Здесь птицы с большими крыльями
могут часами парить в воздухе.
Здесь лошади могут скакать
быстрее ветра и днями обходиться без воды.
Здесь бродят духи-легенды и разговаривают со мной и с ветром.
Разве я могу это все пропустить.
Я должен здесь быть.
Я степной цветок.