Сон

It sounds like the world has frozen somewhere between the March wind and the warmth of summer - where your fingers still remember the cold, but your soul is already reaching for the sun. These words aren't just about weariness; they're an attempt to wake up from the eternal sleep in which an entire generation is trapped. A quiet plea to come alive, to feel again, to breathe in the air without the taste of gunpowder and anxiety. There's something painfully tender about this desire to "love spring like before." It's as if after a long silence, you suddenly want to speak again - not loudly, not about the war, but simply about life. About bare feet on stones, about the smell of smoke and earth that still holds warmth. And even when pain can be heard in every line, hope still sprouts between the words - stubborn, quiet, like the first grass pushing through the asphalt.