***
The night touches your eyelids with gentle hands, and you
recover your sight with the silence of a forgotten memory, living
in the shadow of uncreated eternity. Short-sighted days
look into the pupils, tired from delight, and spin
a documentary film of frightened events
in the empty hall of imagination.
*** 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…