Thirty Years

 

Thirty Years by Yuri Kukin (translated)

Thirty years—a time of bold creation,

Thirty years—the age of elevation,

Thirty years—the fall of old foundations,

Once upheld by minds in high rotation.

Then begins a careful, downward climb,

Each step measured, cautious, tuned to time:

Fifty feels like twenty if you try,

Seventy—just ten, and passing by.

Thirty years—a time of quiet laughter,

Not the tears or sobs that echo after,

Thirty years—a time for brave mistakes,

Where no punishment or burden wakes.

Thirty years—blue mountains in the haze,

Joy of finding, fear that slips away.

Thirty years—of triumph and despair,

Life in full—raw, vivid, rare.

Thirty years—are songs and thoughts in motion,

Crashing waves, and cliffs beside the ocean.

Thirty years—when meaning starts to gleam— 

And yet, it’s brief, like some unfinished dream.

 

Reflective Note 

 At thirty, we stand at the peak of emotional clarity and the richness of life’s experience. It’s the moment when perception is most vivid, and the soul feels most alive. But human potential unfolds in waves: for engineers, forty marks a golden age of skill and innovation; for managers, fifty brings wisdom and strategic depth; and for politicians, seventy is often the season of true influence, tempered by long-lived insight. Life doesn’t decline after thirty—it simply shifts its spotlight.

Thirty Years

Poetic interpretation based on Yuri Kukin’s original

Thirty is the age of ascent— a summit where dreams break into reality, where old ideas fall silent, no longer rulers of thought.

Then comes the descent— each step measured, carefully placed. Fifty feels like twenty, and seventy, like ten— as if time loops quietly back on itself.

Thirty is the age of gentle laughter, not the tear-stained kind, but laughter without burden. Mistakes come without punishment, freedom lives in their wake.

It’s the taste of discovery, and the ache of letting go. It’s blue mountains on the horizon, a life stretched to its edge.

Thirty is waves crashing against cliffs, songs echoing in open air, thoughts chasing meaning, footsteps toward something not yet found. And somehow—thirty is still too little.