Translated by Ollie Richardson & Angelina Siard
Angels live among us. We have been given such happiness to see them grow up, grow wings, and learn to fly. Our children, our angels. Today Donetsk remembers the angels, who left us early away into the sky. Early, unfairly and cruelly. Some of them went with their families.
Today the living angels will fill the schools of Donbass. They will tear apart with their sonorous voices the silence of the corridors of the school. But already more than a hundred angelic creations will never cross the school’s boundaries. They will never come to kindergarten. They will never hug their mother.
The earlier-sounded assurances of the Ukrainian President of his love of Donbass and its inhabitants is like spitting on the graves of children, killed during these two years. Beating means love? May you strangle yourself with such love! Sick, perverse, and miserable. Put it in until your tonsils. You are mourning your guys? What did your guys forget on Donbass lands? Crocodile tribe…
Our children have passed the path of the Angels. Quietly, without looking back. May the Earth lie light upon thee. May, during your next return to Earth, you not drop any teardrops in this vain and cruel world. We remember you.
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