Postulate by Ujif_notfound

First, you lose your first home.
Shock, adaptation.
You are given a new life, a new love, new meanings.
Then they take your second home.
You are destroyed again.
You lose, you rise, you move on, you build, you adapt.
But they don’t stop.
And you lose your third home.
You’re no longer surprised — you understand now: they will never stop.
You could run, but you choose to fight.
You rise again. You adapt again.
You are not alone.
Others fought before you, beside you.
Others will keep fighting.

All you have, all you cling to — is time.
Time that separates matter from its breaking into shards.
They scatter your path with it.
A shattered life, mixed and strewn beneath your feet.

To your fear, another is added — the fear of windows.
Your transparent, imagined shield has become a weapon of entropy,
tense and ready to kill,
piercing your fragile flesh with a thousand fragments.
Stay away from windows.
Better to move through corridors.
Remember the rule of two walls.

And you hear it first — not the impact, not the blast, but the sound.
Glass doesn’t just break — it sings.
Thin, piercing, with terrifying clarity.
Like a scream with no mouth.
Each shard is born of sound,
and each sound is a shard.

First — a short whistle,
as if someone is inhaling through broken lungs.
Then — a crack, like a snapped bone,
and then — a rain of ringing notes,
falling from above, over and over,
the earth speaking its language.

Shattered windows never fall silent —
they keep sounding underfoot,
in the soles, in the heart.
Silence no longer exists: it’s been replaced by this music —
music of collapse, music of warning.
Every step, every breath — an echo of the explosion.
Glass becomes sound.
Sound becomes memory.
Memory does not forgive.

UKRAINIAN LABEL.

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