Бесплатный фрагмент - A collection of poems about the world around us

So, I write these poems not as a mere attempt, not as just clever wordplay, but as my thoughts, ideas, and reflections captured on paper. I express my worldview and a rather contradictory (even to myself) philosophy. Every line holds meaning, and even among themselves, my poems share a special connection and contain references — as I love to do.

Here, I’ve simply written about what came to mind, what I saw (or didn’t see) around me. It was beautiful, though I must admit I couldn’t avoid using online resources — when thoughts swirl too intensely, they need to be put in order. For greater vividness, I selected images generated (many thanks to GigaChat) to match the meaning of the poems, so that the thoughts expressed in words could take on a visual form. I want the reader to see what I imagined while creating, for the entire collection is a single narrative.

On top of everything else, I must say that the binding will most likely be soft, and the images — black and white. To my great regret, I can’t influence this — the platform forbids it. (But what about imagination?)

I convey the meaning in a special form and with special content, and I hope it’s understandable. I’d be very glad if the esteemed reader finds something special while reading (or better yet, rereading) the words drawn from my soul.

I truly hope the collection will be enjoyable and readable in any situation, that it will offer a certain kind of hope. Though perhaps that’s too lofty a goal, almost unattainable, it’s still one of the most important reasons a writer writes.

In any case, I wish you a pleasant and cozy reading experience. I suggest taking a cup of coffee or tea, finding a comfortable spot, and immersing yourself in the lines. Thank you for adding this collection to your library; I’m glad if you find pleasure in reading it. And now we begin.

1.

I hear a whisper in the half-dream’s haze:

«In illusion, only falsehood shows its face.

The truth is sweeter, clearer to behold—

Awake at last from the dream you once held so dear.»

2.

Fantasy soars above the icy abyss,

Painting worlds doomed to crumble into dust and mist.

In its visions, both light and endless dark unite,

While truth sinks deep within the tide of shifting night.

3.

Within these lines lie shards of worlds grown cold and dim,

In every rhyme, the whisper of forgotten sin.

These verses stand like shadows in a chilled, dark nook,

Foretelling all that time has stolen from our look.

The meaning of life is everywhere

The meaning of life is everywhere you see,

In a vast world where the seas resound with mystery.

Where stars inscribe their tales across the air,

There’s meaning in the grand and in the ordinary.

In the breath of dawn and in each spoken word,

A quiet truth that can’t be overheard.

It’s in the first step, in the childish cry:

«I can do it!» — bold beneath the open sky.

It’s in the persistence that can break your stride,

As every wall collapses, bit by bit inside,

When the whole world seemed to turn its back, unknown,

And every dream felt heavy, almost overthrown.

It’s in the exploits etched in history’s scroll,

The works of scientists who light the darkened whole.

In discoveries that banish earthly gloom,

In victories that rise from deepest, drowning doom.

But meaning also lives in silence, soft and low,

In empty courtyards where the winds begin to blow.

In frost’s design on old house windows’ glass,

In a cup of tea, the warmth that makes us pass

From cold to comfort, in the scent of bread so sweet,

In how the leaves converse beside the river’s beat.

In a fleeting glance, a kind word softly spoken,

In the strength to forgive, the grace to wait unbroken.

In patience growing deep within the quiet core,

Like a steady flame that burns forevermore.

To build bridges between hearts and distant shores,

To leave our traces in the stream of passing years,

Not for glory’s sake, but to banish all our fears,

To push the world ahead and make its spirit soar.

And to be there when darkness falls around,

To say, «You’re not alone» — to stand on sacred ground.

A shelter from the wind, a sip of water poured,

To shield you from the cold and every hidden tide, restored.

The meaning’s in a great deed and in simple labor, too,

In a painting that reflects the light on water’s hue.

In tears and laughter, pain and dream’s endeavor,

In everything that dwells upon this mortal river.

Let some seek truth amid the mountain’s towering height,

And others in the quiet murmur of the night.

But truth is as simple as the dawn’s first gleaming light:

The meaning of life is to live, believe, and fight.

Not only in grand achievements to behold,

But learn to see the small things shining gold.

The spark that never fades, forever bold,

Through years and storms, through frost and every sign untold.

For life is more than dates and passing years that fly,

Each moment holds a secret, quietly nearby.

In small and great, the mystery appears anew—

In itself, it is the answer, clear and true.

************************************************************************************

The point is not in distant stars and awards,

Not in high-profile titles, not in golden ranks.

He is in every breath, in the sunsets’ glow,

In simple moments, in life’s fleeting flow.

He is in the cry of the seagull over the wave,

In the rain that whispers secrets to the ground.

In the way the fog descends upon the fields,

How the earth awakens as the cold unwinds.

The point is to feel, not count the passing days,

To notice how the dawn begins to rise.

Like a shadow creeping silently along the walls,

You see the world beneath the vast, unfolding skies.

In hot coffee, steaming gently from the cup,

In a smile that flickers bright for just a while.

In a random word, in a warm «How are you?»,

That can suddenly uplift and make you smile.

It hides in the familiar, in the everyday,

On a journey that sometimes feels unknown.

In fatigue that teaches us to cherish and to stay,

In that rare moment when we’re truly our own.

And the great also holds its quiet, steady light:

In work that leaves a mark through many years.

In hands that build, in thoughts that soar and take flight,

In hearts that keep on believing, past all fears.

But the main thing is not to conquer every peak,

It’s in noticing how the fields grow ripe and full.

In a snowflake resting softly on your palm,

In the wind that whispers legends old and true.

After all, life itself is like a song without a chorus,

Simple, sincere, without falsehood or deceit.

It doesn’t wait for grand, loud words to pour,

But lives in every breath, in moments bit by bit.

Let some seek truth in heavy, dusty volumes,

And others in reflections on the wet paving stones.

But the truth is simple, clear, and pure beyond all tumult:

The meaning of life is in life itself, in every «now» that’s shown.

Not for the sake of the future, not for years gone by,

But for this moment that fills the air with light.

For the sake of seeing, hearing, feeling, never passing by,

And every day, like a miracle, to hold it tight.

There is no meaning to life at all

Empty eternity whispers in the hush,

As if the world is just a shadow on a vast canvas.

The wind draws lines of roads across the brush,

But none of them will lead us to the hall at last,

Where the answer waits, where truth quietly stands,

Where meaning might at last unfold its quiet hands.

Dawn rises — then fades without a trace or sign,

Like a thought consumed by a silent, hungry flame.

Both day and night are but a fleeting, swift design,

Moments that slip away, unnamed, the same.

They merge into a gray, smooth, quiet ground below,

Where no high words or lofty goals are ever found.

We build castles from hopes that hold no weight or worth,

Draw maps to lands that never come to be.

We fight an enemy we cannot name or birth,

Counting each step in our own mystery.

And time lays dust upon each work we strive to make,

Erasing names, erasing every trace we take.

Great achievements, works we thought would stand so tall,

That seemed to promise endless immortality,

Will crumble like an old house built too fast and frail,

Leaving only silence, only quiet obscurity.

Any triumph is a flash against the darkened sky,

A spark that melts into the endless arc, and dies.

And in small things — in breath, in gentle warmth and grace,

In a casual glance, in morning dew’s soft gleam—

There’s no hidden message, no secret oath to trace,

No ciphered truth to solve in any dream.

Only chance, chaos, the dance of being’s restless tide,

With no fixed start, no end, no place to hide.

We hunt for meaning in the clouds’ elusive design,

In the chatter of words, in the pulse of cities’ roar.

But the sky looks down with an indifferent, cold sign,

Promising no prizes, opening no door.

It sends no messages, no coded light to guide,

Only the wind murmurs into the hollow night.

And still we walk, not knowing where we go ahead,

Through days and years, through every cold and rain.

Not for a purpose, not to speak in grand display,

Just because to be is our strange and quiet domain.

We don’t search for meaning — we simply breathe and stay,

And in that quiet act, we somehow rebel, anyway.

Let there be no meaning, great or small or grand,

Let all around be just a shifting, fleeting dream.

But in this «to be,» in moving through it all, by hand,

There lies a sense, though not what it might seem.

Not as an answer, not as some grand sign to show,

But as a steady, quiet, personal line we grow.

Life

Life is not a line in a dry textbook,

Not a diagram, not a drawing, not a chart.

She is a stream that rushes through each look,

Sometimes it whispers soft, sometimes it storms and starts.

It’s born in the crackle of the first bright spark,

In the way the sprout breaks through the hard, cold stones.

In the breath of the wind, in the leaf’s quiet fall,

Like the secret that in every chest alone unfolds.

Life is a dance of opposites and shades,

Where cold meets warmth without a lie or mask.

Where light begets the shadows, silence breeds the words we say,

And in this tangle lies its living, breathing task.

It lives in motion — from the atom to the stars,

In the rhythm heard within each beating heart.

Not to conquer worlds, but simply just to be,

Through pain and joy, along a thousand different paths, you’ll see.

We hunt for formulas, we try to understand

How this vast world works, how to solve its riddle clear.

But life won’t give an answer in a table’s rigid hand,

It dwells beyond all logic, past each boundary and tier.

It’s in opposition, struggle, and in grace,

In learning how to hear even in silence deep.

In falling down and rising to your rightful place,

To breathe again, to dream, to feel the earth beneath your feet.

In tears that wash the soul, in laughter that can heal,

In questions that the heart itself quietly replies.

In trials that lead to no fixed, final seal,

They teach us how to see the world in all its colors, skies.

And even when it all seems lost and vain,

When night enfolds the city in its heavy, dense embrace,

Life whispers: «Look — I’m here, I’m alive again,

I’m in each stroke, each word, each «yes’ that holds its space.»

It doesn’t ask for meaning, doesn’t need excuses made,

It simply is — in winds, in rain, in partings slow.

In hope that quietly among the ruins stays unafraid,

Like an eternal flame amid the cold, blank snow.

So let there be no purpose to explain the moment’s worth,

It’s enough that there is motion, life’s unbroken thread.

That the world keeps on turning, and we’re not just passing through the earth,

But part of this vast, living, boundless universe instead.

Life as a phenomenon is neither end nor sum,

But an eternal process binding us as one.

The breath of the planet, pulse of all time’s flow,

A boundless, mysterious, living law we’ll never fully know.

************************************************************************************

We hunt for horror in the word «life» itself,

Drive on in search — and catch the darkness, pain, and grief.

As if the world were made to sharpen all our troubles deep,

Draping the sky in a heavy, black, suffocating veil.

But life is felt most keenly when it’s near at hand,

When the breath of death is just a stone’s throw clear and grand.

When a single moment, brief as any flash, draws close,

It burns with sudden fire in the cold, blank mirrors’ glow.

Then a drop of water becomes a quiet revelation,

The wind a lullaby, the sunset — a sacred creation.

We suddenly glimpse a meaning in that final second’s span,

Before the light grows dim and fades from every human plan.

Don’t let transience frighten you with its stern and silent glance—

It’s only a reminder: live this moment, seize the dance.

Appreciate the dawn, the rain, the quiet scent in air,

Before the fire inside us quietly fades and disappears.