Illness isn't just physical weakness; it's also a reassessment of values, a quiet conversation with oneself, a view of the world through the prism of vulnerability. These poems are an attempt to capture moments when time slows down and the senses become heightened. They are about struggle, hope, fear, and the special beauty that emerges in moments of closeness to a finite life. They are about how our perception of the ordinary shifts when every breath becomes a small miracle.<\/p>\n
\nIn the hospital silence, as in a white dream, worries and dreams are dissolved. Only the flickering of IVs in the semi-darkness, and someone's sighs, filled with melancholy. Here, time drags on like a long prison, and each day feels like the last. But even in this sorrow, even here, hope whispers: "There will be a wonderful day.".\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nLight outside the window<\/h2>\n
\nThe light outside the window, like a ghost of bygone days, reminds of freedom, of space. It beckons into the distance, where there are no sick shadows, where life seethes in a familiar, clear chorus. But the body is weak, and the soul is silent, and the world around loses its colors. Only in memory does the melody of a bygone, bright fairy tale still resound, resound. And yet the light breaks through, the veil of pain, fear, and doubt. It says: "Do not be afraid, do not be carried away, into the embrace of eternal, cold oblivion.".\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nWhite coat<\/h2>\n
\nA white coat is a quiet sign of hope, In the doctors' eyes \u2013 care and compassion. They fight for every breath and step, Giving the sick their warm communion. But even they cannot perform miracles, And death sometimes knocks on our doors. And only humility and dew remain, On the cheeks of those who believe and those who don't. And in this struggle, in this silence, A special, sacred bond is born. Between doctor and patient, in the hospital gloom, Hope glimmers, not knowing where to find it. And the white coat, a symbol of kindness, Reminds us: we are not alone in the world. That there is still love and beauty, And that illness is not a sentence, but a test in the lyre.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nPulse<\/h2>\n
\nThe pulse is a quiet metronome of bygone years, measuring time like a song. Sometimes a steady rhythm, sometimes a faint, feeble trace, a reminder of heavenly destiny. It beats in the temples, in the wrist, in the silence, like an echo of a life receding into the distance. And each beat is like a plea, for the earthly steel to prolong. But the pulse weakens, and the breath sleeps, and the body gives in under the weight of illness. And only hope remains, flying, into heavenly spaces filled with serenity.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nDream<\/h2>\n
\nSleep is a quiet island in an ocean of pain, Where there is no suffering, no anxiety or torment. Where you can rest, forget your role, And experience the heavenly sciences. It carries you to a world of dreams and quiet slumbers, Where everything is possible, where freedom reigns. Where you can meet those who are no longer there, And feel the dawn of love at its peak. But sleep passes, and reality awaits, With its pain, fear, and sadness. And the heart will once again sing with pain, That life is not a fairy tale, but only a distant horizon. And yet sleep is a gift, it is consolation, In moments of weakness and despair. It gives faith, hope, inspiration, And the strength to live without repentance.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nWall<\/h2>\n
\nThe hospital wall, cold and empty, holds the silence of suffering. Only shadows hang on it, like someone's secret, and reflections of lost, bright knowledge. It divides the world into "here" and "there," into life and death, into joy and despondency. And it seems there is no turning back, and that illness is more than just a trial. But even in this grayness and gloom, hope whispers: "There will be a beautiful day." And the heart beats, believing in miracles, and that the world will not suddenly become dangerous. And this wall, like a faithful friend, will support in difficult times without turning away. It will remind: everything will pass, and the circle will close again, and life will awaken again.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nConversation with the Shadow<\/h2>\n
\nI speak with the shadow trembling in the corner, About the fears that torment my soul. About how life so quickly fades into life, And that illness is like a dark, evil dryness. It is silent, only absorbing the pain, And reflecting despair in the mirror. But I seek in it an echo of the role, Of hope that gives me radiance. And suddenly I see in it a familiar gaze, Of someone who is no longer by my side. And my heart freezes, like a treasure, Filled with love and reward. And the conversation with the shadow becomes bright, And the pain disappears, like a melting haze. And I believe that everything will be welcome, And that illness is only a temporary curse.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nIV drip<\/h2>\n
\nAn IV drip is a slow, quiet current of life returning to the body. It's like a symbol, a reliable bridge, to a world where there is no pain and no limit. It contains medicine and dreams, and the faith that all is still possible. It's like a thread connecting you to life, and to all that was, is, and will be. But an IV drip is only a temporary union; it can't heal all wounds. All that remains is humility and union with the power that guides us through the mists.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nA window to the world<\/h2>\n
\nA window onto the world is like a still from a film, Where life seethes, unaware of suffering. Where the sun shines, and flowers bloom, And birds sing their springtime hymns. But I look at the world through a prism of pain, And everything around seems distant and alien. And my heart cries, as if in a dark will, That I cannot be with him. And yet the window \u2013 it gives hope, That I will return to this beautiful world. That I can once again experience ignorance, The taste of life, so sweet and dangerous.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nQuiet hour<\/h2>\n
\nQuiet time is when everything freezes, and pain retreats, as if into oblivion. When the soul rests peacefully, and the heart beats in quiet, peaceful warmth. At this moment, I remember home, those who love and wait for me there. And the faith that I will return to them soon bestows strength, like a bright balm. And quiet time is like a gift from fate, like a chance for healing and peace. It fills the heart with a new prayer, for a return to the great life.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nMask<\/h2>\n
\nA mask is a symbol of hidden pain and fear, Weary eyes hidden behind it. It's like a shield, a defense against the enemy, And against what they don't want to see. But a mask is just a deception, just a game, It cannot hide the wounds of the soul. And sooner or later, no matter what, The pain will burst forth like oceans. And I take off my mask, unafraid, To show the world my true self. And let them see my tears and passion, And my belief that life is wisdom.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nDoctor's rounds<\/h2>\n
\nA doctor's round is like a stern sentence, a mixture of hope and anxiety. They watch, listen, and talk, about what will happen next, without a hint. Their faces are serious, and their gaze is cold, they are used to seeing pain and suffering. But I search in them for an echo of my family, compassion, understanding, recognition. And suddenly I see in the eyes of one, warmth and care, like a ray of hope. And my heart stops, as if in a movie, and I believe that everything will be as before.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nThe smell of medicine<\/h2>\n
\nThe smell of medicine is like the taste of bitter truth, That life is not an eternal game. That we are all mortal, and there is no need To seek happiness in it, like a mirage. But this smell is also the smell of life, Hope for healing and peace. It says: "Fight, don't lose heart, hold on, And believe that everything will be alright with you." And I inhale this smell deeply, And feel my strength returning. And I am ready for the fight, for new difficulties, And for what life has in store in silence.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nPrayer<\/h2>\n
\nPrayer is a quiet whisper in the darkness, To the power that created us and loves us. It is like light, like hope in the void, And like forgiveness for all our mistakes. I pray for health, for peace, For the pain to go away forever. And I believe that the Lord will hear my plea, And grant me healing and grace. And prayer fills the heart with faith, And gives strength to live and fight. It is like a compass, like a guiding star, That leads us to light, to happiness, to freedom.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nSleepy corridor<\/h2>\n
\nA sleepy corridor, the hum of footsteps in the distance, Shadows flickering like ghosts in the night. Here time stands still, and days have passed, Waiting for change, almost like family. The smell of bleach, silence and darkness, Weariness in the eyes, anticipation in the heart. And it seems that life has passed, passed, and that only one thing remains \u2013 silence. But in this silence, in this emptiness, Hope is born, like a flower. And I believe that in this darkness, I will find the path to the light, like a prophet.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\nWhite ceiling<\/h2>\n
\nThe white ceiling is like a blank sheet of paper, On which you can write your destiny. On it are only shadows, like mirages, And glimmers of hope, as if in paradise. I look at it and think about life, About what was, is, and will be ahead. And I understand that everything is in our hands, And that we ourselves are the creators of our own destiny. And the white ceiling gives me inspiration To live, love, and create. And I believe that in this world of oblivion, I can find my way, and not lose my way.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Illness is not only physical weakness, but also a reassessment of values, a quiet conversation with oneself, a look at the world through the prism<\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-155","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stihi"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/155","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=155"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/155\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174827,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/155\/revisions\/174827"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=155"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=155"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=155"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}