Sergei Vinogradov
In the golden protrait with mother
I smile,
her posture never failing,
always straight like a brick wall
looking into the bright heavens that seem so far.
Never a wide smile on her face,
never the sound of joy.
Never when dad is not home.
Never.
Never a hint of sadness on her embittered face,
always bravery.
Always since dad left on 1932.
This poem is about:
Our world