Some songs are not ours to sing — they are the Goddess singing through us.
“Ya Malyuyu” (“I paint”) is one of these. It does not come like a pop tune or even a prayer; it comes like a visitation. You sit in the half-dark, weary from everything you have been through, and suddenly there is a presence. The night holds its breath. The grief that was twisting inside you begins to loosen, as if someone has put a warm hand over your heart.
This is Devi after the storm, after the battlefield. Not Lalitā on the throne with bow in hand, not Kāli raging in the cremation ground — but the Mother who kneels in the dust beside you, who takes your face gently in Her hands and says: “Show me — but softly. Do not wake the sleeping grief.”
She does not demand that you be strong. She does not scold you for the fear that still trembles in your chest. She sits with you until the shaking stops. And then — when you are quiet enough to hear it — She begins to sing.
“Ya malyuyu svit...”
“I paint the world...”
It is not you speaking. It is not your voice. It is Hers. The Goddess Herself is painting the world again, right there in front of you, stroke by stroke. The white page is the cosmos, the colors are every living soul, and you are watching the universe be re-enchanted.
That is why this song feels so unbearably tender — because it is the sound of creation happening again after devastation. The same power that once let the night fall now pours color into the dawn. And as She sings, She includes you too: your pain, your story, your hands that will one day be steady enough to hold the brush with Her.
This is not just a song about hope — it is hope itself, breathing.
Verse 1
Pokazhy, roskazhy, ale tykho,
Ne budy, bo dusha prysapala lykho...
Znaiu, my vzhe z toboiu ne skazhem
I nekhai na slovakh tilky strakh,
Ale ochi, mov kliuchi vidkryvaiut
Temni nochi...
Dotorknysʹ, tse tvii svit
Takyi zhorstokyi, ale ia...Show me, tell me — but softly,
Do not wake, for the soul has lulled the sorrow to sleep...
I know, we will no longer speak of it,
And let there be only fear in the words,
But the eyes — like keys — unlock
The dark nights.
Touch it, this is your world,
So cruel, but I..
“Show me, tell me — but softly...”
This is Devi when She is closest. She is not thundering from the skies, not appearing crowned in flame — She is leaning close enough for you to hear Her breath. She knows that your soul is exhausted from the battle. She does not demand confession, She does not demand explanation. She only asks to be shown, gently, what still lives inside you.
“Do not wake, for the soul has lulled the sorrow to sleep...”
This is not repression; this is mercy. Some grief cannot be faced all at once. Devi lets it sleep until the heart is strong enough to bear its weight. Like a mother who smooths the blanket over a fevered child, She keeps the pain from shivering in the night.
“I know, we will no longer speak of it — and let there be only fear in the words...”
Even the silence is sacred. Fear may still live in the body, trembling like an animal, but She does not chase it out. She sits with it. This is Her profound wisdom — that healing does not begin by tearing open the wound, but by creating a space where even fear can breathe.
“But the eyes — like keys — unlock the dark nights.”
Here is the turning point. Her gaze is not passive. It is initiation. When She looks into you, the locks that held back your deepest night click open. The darkness is no longer a sealed tomb — it becomes a corridor you can pass through. And because She is there, you do not walk it alone.
“Touch it, this is your world — so cruel, but I...”
This line is like a hand extended. She does not take the world away. She does not soften its edges. She gives it back to you as it is — cruel, jagged, real — but with Herself standing beside you in it. This is the most radical tenderness of all: She does not rescue you from life; She teaches you to touch it again. The cruelty does not vanish, but you are no longer abandoned to it.
This first verse is the preparation, the holy pause before the painting begins. It is Devi sitting with you in the ashes, letting you breathe until the heart no longer flinches at the sight of the world. Only then — when the silence has done its work — does She put the brush in your hand.
Chorus
Ya malyuyu svit,
V yakomu my nache farby kolorovi...
Ya malyuyu svit,
De nemaie zla i boliu...
Ya malyuyu svit,
De vsi liudy – zori v nebi...
Ya malyuyu svit
Na bilomu paperi...
Ya malyuyu... Ya malyuyu...I paint a world
Where we are like colors, bright and living...
I paint a world
Where there is no evil and no pain...
I paint a world
Where all people are stars in the sky...
I paint a world
On a white sheet of paper...
I paint... I paint...
The chorus is where Devi fully takes your hand. You can almost feel Her palm against yours, steadying your fingers, teaching you how to make the first stroke.
“I paint a world...” — The words themselves feel like the first drop of color falling on white paper. This is the moment after silence, when creation begins again. The world has been shattered, and She does not ask you to explain or justify it — She simply begins to paint.
“Where we are like colors, bright and living...” — Each soul becomes a shade on Her palette. None are left out, none are cast away. This is not uniform gray; this is the riot of creation itself, the infinite play of difference, each hue shimmering because it belongs. To sing this line is to feel yourself not as a lonely fragment but as part of a great spectrum — radiant because She is mixing you into Her art.
“Where there is no evil and no pain...” — This is not denial of suffering; this is its transmutation. She does not erase what happened, but She transforms the battlefield into a garden where no sword is needed. The pain that once burned now becomes pigment — its fire is spent, its ashes turned into color.
“Where all people are stars in the sky...” — This is perhaps the most intimate promise. Everyone — even the ones who hurt you — is seen as light, not shadow. This is the cosmic forgiveness that only the Goddess can grant. It does not excuse harm, but it lifts you out of the heaviness of judgment until every being is a spark suspended in the vast night, shining in its own place.
“On a white sheet of paper...” — The white sheet is not emptiness; it is possibility. It is the śūnya-bindu, the still point at the center of the yantra, waiting to be filled with meaning. It is terrifying at first — the blankness after loss — but here it is holy ground, ready to receive whatever She chooses to place upon it.
And then the mantra-like repetition: “Ya malyuyu... Ya malyuyu...” — “I paint... I paint...” Until it is no longer clear whether it is you saying it or Her. This is the final surrender: the recognition that the very act of imagining, of creating, of loving the world again, is Her doing. The chorus becomes a japa, a prayer that paints you back into life.
Verse 2
Ne movchy, hovory, ia z toboiu,
Vse harazd, my vzhe ne na poli boiu...
Ty trymay moiu ruku mitsnishe,
Ne vidpuskai!..
Na slovakh tilky strakh,
Ale ochi, mov kliuchi vidkryvaiut
Temni nochi...
Dotorknysʹ, tse tvii svit
Takyi zhorstokyi, ale ia...Do not be silent, speak — I am with you,
It’s all right, we are no longer on the battlefield...
Hold my hand tighter,
Do not let go!..
Let there be only fear in the words,
But the eyes — like keys — unlock
The dark nights.
Touch it, this is your world,
So cruel, but I...
“Do not be silent, speak — I am with you.”
If the first verse was about silence, this one is about voice. The Goddess now invites you to speak, not as interrogation but as confession without shame. The presence of Devi makes speech safe. It is as if She is saying: Let your voice tremble if it must — I will not leave.
“It’s all right, we are no longer on the battlefield...”
This is the great proclamation of peace. The war you carried inside — the war that made you live clenched and braced — has ended. Devi does not just tell you to relax; She declares the ground safe. There is a deep exhale hidden in this line, the kind of breath that only comes when the bombs have stopped falling and you realize you have survived.
“Hold my hand tighter, do not let go!..”
Here the tenderness grows fierce. Devi is not distant — She is close enough that you can feel the strength in Her grip. This is the paradox of Her love: She is both the infinite sky and the one who clasps your hand like a mother pulling a child out of danger. It is not you clinging to Her, it is She refusing to release you back into despair.
“Let there be only fear in the words...”
Fear may still speak, but it is now harmless. It rattles softly like a bell in the night, no longer dictating your fate. Devi does not scold you for your fear — She lets it have its say until it loses its power.
“But the eyes — like keys — unlock the dark nights.”
Again the gaze returns, again the initiation. This is not a single moment but a practice — every time the night closes in, Her eyes unlock it. And with each unlocking, the night feels less like a prison and more like a passageway.
“Touch it, this is your world — so cruel, but I...”
The verse ends exactly as the first verse does — but now, after the hand-holding, the world feels different. The cruelty has not disappeared, but you are no longer meeting it alone. The “I” that trails off at the end is almost audible: I am here. And suddenly even the cruel world can be touched without shattering you.
This second verse is the moment when Devi turns from silent companion to active guide. She leads you out of the trenches, wipes the soot from your face, and presses your hand to remind you that you are alive — not just alive, but ready to face the night with Her beside you.
Bridge
Ty podyvysʹ na toi svit,
I shcho zrobyly my z nym...
Ty podyvysʹ na toi svit,
I shcho zrobyly my z nym...Look at this world,
And what we have done with it...
Look at this world,
And what we have done with it...
“Look at this world...”
Here Devi’s voice turns outward. She is no longer just speaking to your private heart — She is asking you to open your eyes fully. This is Her invitation to see creation as it is, not as we wish it to be. The command is simple, almost severe, yet there is no anger here — only the deep, aching compassion of a Mother who loves too much to let you look away.
“And what we have done with it...”
This is the wound laid bare. Devi does not separate Herself from us — She says we. It is an unsparing moment, but also one of solidarity. She sees what humanity has done — the wars, the cruelties, the poisons we have spilled — and She does not flinch. Instead, She stands with us, asking us to face the truth together.
The repetition is like a bell tolling in the night. Twice She makes you look. Twice She refuses to let you turn away. This is Her fierce grace: not allowing the eyes to close, because only what is truly seen can be healed.
This bridge is not despair — it is initiation into responsibility. To look without collapsing, to witness without denial, is itself an act of worship. This is Devi’s katharsis: the cleansing that comes when the world’s pain is finally acknowledged, so that the brush can be lifted again with clarity and purpose.
The song ends where it began — with the brush in Her hand, the white page before you.
But now it is different. The first verse lulled the pain, the second gave you Her hand, the bridge made you look at the wound of the whole world — and only after all that does the painting begin again.
This final chorus is no longer a wishful daydream. It is a vow.
You have seen the cruelty, faced the night, felt the weight of what humanity has done — and yet you choose to paint. The brush is steady now, your hand guided by Hers. Every stroke is an act of devotion: the act of saying yes to life again, even when the world has been cruel.
Devi’s presence is now unmistakable. The repetition of “Ya malyuyu... Ya malyuyu...” becomes a japa, a mantra that remakes not only the world but your own heart. It is as though She is whispering: I am painting you too. The night that once seemed empty is now filled with stars — and you are one of them.
This is why this song feels so sacred: it is not merely a pop ballad but a small initiation. It teaches you that there is a time for silence, a time for speaking, a time for seeing — and finally, a time for creating. It is the full cycle of Devi’s grace: from the hush of grief, to the holding of the hand, to the fierce truth of vision, to the dawn where color returns.
The world may still be broken. The paper may still be white. But with every stroke of this song, a little more light spills onto the page — until you realize that the Goddess is not only asking you to paint the world. She is painting it through you.
Epilogue
I did not just write about this song today — I was taken by it.
Somewhere between the first verse and the last chorus, something in me cracked wide open. By the time I finished writing, I found myself crying — not with despair, but with that strange, sweet pain that comes when the heart is finally soft enough to be touched.
It felt as if Devi Herself had taken the brush from my hand and said: “Enough words about Me — let Me speak for Myself.” These paragraphs did not feel like something I composed. They felt like something She sang through me.
And maybe that is the truest meaning of this song. Ya malyuyu svit — I paint the world — was never meant to be just a line for us to repeat. It is the Goddess announcing that She is still creating, still coloring, still breathing new light into the night — and sometimes, if we are quiet enough, She will use us as Her instruments.
Tonight, I was one of those instruments.
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