TROLLEY TRACK, KRAKÓW - BUCZA

Night again, and again, I can't sleep. On one side, Bucza, Irpień, and Hostomel are burning, and on the other side, where my parents live, Czarnobajewka, who has suffered so much, is burning. My head is roaring with the rockets exploding in Kyiv, Kharkiv, Mariupol, Chernihiv…

The late trams that rumble under my Krakow windows bring back the worst memories in life
- shaking walls, shooting! The prison of two walls! Get down! Close your eyes, open your mouth!

“It's a tram, girl, an ordinary tram, these walls will withstand the vibrations it causes, nothing will collapse, nothing will burn!”

“Let's not talk about it anymore. Especially before nighttime. I don't want to see thirty horses burned alive in the Hostomel stables again. Even horses! Even the horses... They also needed to be demilitarized, de-Nazified, they too were a threat to a potential NATO membership?”

“Okay, let's talk about something else. Imagine coming home – the tired, but happy eyes of the husband who greets you, embraces you, hugs you... Tusia - a red, funny mongrel who, for fear of explosions, was hiding so deep under the boards that he could barely get out from under them, is now trying to squeeze himself between you. Waśka the cat is sitting on a cherry tree and meowing. The cherry, although not trimmed this year, is covered with flowers, and  many fruits will be formed on it. You enter your home - your happy family home, which has resisted, survived, and endured... You go through all the rooms one by one, you come back to your life, you take every beloved little thing in your hands, you cry, you thank God, your husband, the soldiers...”

“I don't know if I still have a home.  If still have a husband... No news for a week. Only the TV reel, which seems to come out of the very bottom of hell, reports on successive stretches of destroyed lands, burnt-pitch black...”

“Don't watch the news.”

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