Leaves
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Like lost children, the dry leaves on the mournful sidewalks wind around our legs. Could those fallen leaves ever find
Still Life with Potato Field
by Anzhelina Polonskaya Tell me, why is there war if not to leave buckles in lumps of clay ? The potato field sleeps. At night you can’t imagine
Alone in my room to Mother
by Anzhelina Polonskaya I’m in my room. Alone. Remnants of sleep stick to my eyelids, like flies. Window wells heave with cold snow — a