I grow up on the street, but the dirt did not stick to me.
It did not make me be mad at life, at people,
It did not make me bad, not love and believe.
1990, the end of the Soviet Union era,
The end of my parents marriage.
All they were been doing is fighting about everything
Like like they never loved each other,
Like me and my sister were not around.
They forgot everything.
One time my mother broke all the dishes in the house,
The floor was white.
Then she wanted to drink,
I returned from school again and again,
She was drunk, could not even speak.
Then I broke everything else, the furniture, the windows,
I took a hammer, my mom got scared, and never drink ever since.
Then my father's second wife would not leave me alone,
Begging for forgiveness on her knees for stealing my papa all over the city.
My mom got a boyfriend, needed the house.
My sister had to live with my grandmother for a year.
I was left alone on the street.
I found the true freedom, the freedom of mind.
I was shy, but I could lead.
I have met old Russian women who could heal anything just with a touch of the hand,
Just with the hug.
I met a man who could talk to the sky, wind the trees.
And everyone was very kind to me.
I went to school, our teacher was a Church painter
And at fourteen I believed in God on my own...
