Air-Raid Sirens On Sveridova Street

The unmistakable sound smacks of church bells in purgatory -- our family has burnt the last candles in the damp basement crawling with mice. Neighbors offer their flashlight, under the thunderous explosions above rocking the building. Toddlers cry and dogs bark, older women reminisce WWII's horrors which they survived, and will survive again. It's morning again, militias bring hot bread and milk for the new-born hurried from hospital that fell to Russian missile, intercepted. Last night here, death was intercepted again, prolonging the Russian misery. The air-raid sirens are now music to ear, their scratching noise filling the air with epic serenity. The sirens haven't robbed me of my human potential. Bang another explosion I flinch back downstairs again My heartbeats in my toes It’s only a half past 7.