Somewhere up at the head of the waterless river, where I was once or was I, where sleepy eyelids
were heavy with the shadow of ages waiting for the skies and the night lost its way, and I lost myself
in happy peace of an abandoned life, and faces of friends cold with death came back to the earth,
and we met, and the years of our memories with their hads joined were dancing below us, above
the abyss of all that was lost, in a colourful ring of tired moments, and the silence pressed its
forehead against the dawn, and a swarm of dragonflies, those visible essences of the sentinel, were
on guard at the final dream.
*** How can you singthese wordsat the height of glory,don’t you seethat all our vowelsare…
*** Alarmous sorrow of fogs hides from hellish, stranger’s eyes the museum of our waxen…
Yesterday, editor and literary critic Dmytro Drozdovsky received wonderful news about the publication of his…
The war goes on.The war goes on.War runs.War flies.Today I rememberwith what passionin my childhoodwe…