Day  in memory of the Holodomor victims

My memory hurts
Common graves,
Where the living and the dead are buried
And the earth is supposed to be frozen,
And the crime is hidden by crosses!
***
My memory hurts
The furnaces are empty,
Beets divided into twelve
And small plump handles,
And half-crazy eyes.
***
My memory hurts
Powerless mother
Against the atrocities of indifference satiated
And executed with hatred
The bread of life, which was put behind bars.
***
Only a candle,
Inflamed in the evening,
It warms the souls of the innocent lost,
And the loaf of bread, which was freshly baked,
A hard memory of my story. "
                                Alla Meita