Pavlo Tychyna

The heavy, suffocating silence of the apartment in the “Word” booth cut a louder sound of shells. Pavlo stood outside the window, hovering behind the important curtain, and marveling at the darkness underneath. Behind his back, his hands nervously fingered the jacket on his jacket.
There are many more fateful things to do with the sound of the rustling corn and sleepy clarinets singing about the lowliness of the partisan park. And today... today the skin shadow on the street was visible in a skinned jacket, and the noise of the engine behind the window made my heart clench like an icy sensation. The neighbor’s apartment had already been empty for a week—Khvilovy having made his choice, Kurbas was taken away at night. Pavlo is lost. Alive. At what cost?
On the work table, under the dark light of a table lamp, lies an unfinished arch. There was no more clarinetism there. There were equal, right, and absolutely dead rows about tractors, parties and the great Kermanich. Vіn knowing what to say about him: “Looking at the clarinet of your farbs, the poetry of the pipe was lost...” And this truth baked harder for the scorching fire.
Behind the doors in the corridor there were quiet sounds. Pavlo, shuddering, turned his hand out of the window and grabbed a pen from the table, luckily burying the robot. The cold drink came out clumsy.
“Who’s there?...” His voice, once melodious and soft, immediately sounded hoarse and taut, like a string that cracks on its axis.