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Path to the Self
And above the field—a moonlit tale
Shines quietly in the late hour.
And a star, like someone's conscience,
Falls without asking us.
The grass lies evenly by the house,
Slightly pressed down beside the porch.
And some languor in the soul
Keeps murmuring and weeping without end.
By the gate, the birch is still the same,
As in childhood, only grown taller.
And the fence is still the same. Even
The paint is the same, only darker.
The wildflowers gaze sleepily,
As though waiting for someone to pick them.
And the brook runs steadily
To the river with the willow where heather blooms.
Everything seems just as it was.
Everything seems as it always has been.
Only with the years, everything has grown more precious:
This field, the old house, the river...
The creak of the gate, the path into the grove,
The smell of hay that comes in dreams.
A leaf, slightly translucent in the sun,
A spiderweb among wildflowers...
Only the silence cannot quiet down.
It whispers with the tenderness of those who are gone.
Sometimes it approves, touching the soul.
Sometimes it condemns with its own smile.
And I have no strength to speak with the silence.
It does not scold; it only repeats:
Do not grieve, we are with you forever.
May the soul release and forgive everyone.
Sergey Veretennikov (Oryol poet and writer)
15.04.2025
Every poem you write is a profound experience, in the best sense of the word. Because each of your creations contains an incredibly deep meaning—one that permeates every cell when it is realized
Thank you for being who you are! And for giving us everything possible and impossible, day after day, step by step, in such abundance
