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

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