Supposing I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would Ты know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch Ты at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, Ты walked through the shadow of the champa дерево to the little court where Ты say your prayers, Ты would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal...
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