Hail

There was hail in Lugansk.
The sort of hail that is not written using a capital letter or quotation marks [a reference to the Grad, i.e. “Hail” 122mm artillery rockets used to bombard Novorossia’s cities].
The right sort of hail.
Which makes you run into the house and lock the door behind you with wet hands just in time.
There was thunder off in the distance. Prolonged and loud.
Today, at the market, we heard distant shell explosions. Nobody even turned their heads–everyone continued moving between the stalls.
Besides, why turn one head if it’s so far away? Buying food for the supper is more important.

Donbass trees are bursting with zherdeli. That’s what I call apricots nowadays.
The hail has come to an end and the rain washed everything off with its watery streams. Grass is decorated with orange fruit.
As we were driving back from the market, the guys asked me why I was screaming at night.
I could not remember.
It momentarily escaped my memory.
They said I was talking loudly, and then I was shaking for five minutes without saying anything.
I only extended my cupped hand, as if asking for something.
People here have long been living normal lives.
Beauty salons are packed, they are booked for weeks ahead, cafes are full of people.
On the streets, many cars with wedding decorations.
I can’t even imagine what people who lived the through the hell of Pervomaysk and are living through the hell of Gorlovka dream about.
You who play with people as if they were dice, you are monsters.
I hope you’ll never sleep.


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