My world is made up of pieces, as in a kaleidoscope
images of time, stretching into oblivion with every movement.
My world gathered from the present, becoming someone else's past ...
Gone events, people and things.
I'm not trying to keep them in his memory
In the hope of meeting there, where other time and space.
My world consists of changing mosaics.
Images crumbling and heard, as broken glass.
My World needs at the beginning and end.
beginning was the word.
I'm trying to recall the stories told by old doctor,
After spending 25 years in Soviet concentration camps.
Yes, it is was in the beginning is now.
adult male as well as the fifteen-year-boy
can not understand why he should be a piece of land
Calling своей родиной.
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