Превод: Andrew Sheppard

Дай първата оценка

The end of April 2022. Two months of horror in Ukraine. There are many of us here in Kraków. We came in streams from everywhere. We cling to each other, and at the same time we are acutely lonely, deeply hidden within ourselves, where we hear unspeakable, scary sounds.

It is still difficult for us to pronounce the names of our home cities and towns.

We walk the streets every time as if for the first time.

We cry when we see the Ukrainian flag hanging from someone's balcony.

The Polish language still reminds us of the rustle of the autumn wind: ‘Sh-sh-sh... psheprasham... psheshlo...’

We still have almost no light clothes and shoes.

We still don't know how to buy tram tickets, or top-up our ‘phone credit.

We still do not dare to look at the windows with ice cream, coffee, cakes...

We bypass places where music and laughter are heard.

We are not yet thinking of looking for a job.

We still hope to return home...

Our relatives are under occupation. Our houses are wounded. Our cities are mined. Every day, cruise missiles fly to our Motherland: hundreds of rockets! Our news feeds on Facebook have portraits framed in black.

The water we are made of is not tears.

Our tears are the rain that flows through the streets of Krakow...

Grief, human grief of a universal scale has fallen on our shoulders and does not allow us to raise our eyes; does not allow us to exhale: does not let us sleep at night. It suffocates, drains our strength, displaces the soul.

All museums are open to us free of charge; to comfo

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