***
Sometimes I see how the eyes of the sunset
are filling up with blood, I hear
sometimes, as a woodpecker makes notches
on the thick-skinned memory of trees,
sometimes I feel how life tails away.
Heart of time, I do not ask you where you are.
I see you, I hear you, I feel you.
*** 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…
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