I obsessively hear at night the sound of the Kremlin tyrant’s tank tracks attacking Kharkiv, I hear his missiles whistling over Kyiv, I hear his bombs blowing out the windows of the Mariupol children’s hospital. I search in my word box, as a painter would search in his color box: I find only black, and even that is not enough! I would like to rip open my web, tear my page. I can not find the words.
The wind in the willows is no longer so cheerful, the silence of the forest has lost its peace. I have no more words to say the precious things of life. The terrible reality of war overwhelmed me. Hatred exhausts words. The words that cry out Ukrainian pain are tears of silence in the face of the unthinkable, stifled sobs in the face of the unspeakable.
Something has broken since the war. I feel that the world is no longer the same, that it will no longer be. Since that hellish fortnight, my words no longer go their merry way, they go straight into the ditch, as if a rocket had hit them in the forehead. My words have become the silence of a wordless language.
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