This poem is dedicated to my teen family of Donetsk. These kids of the neighborhood took care of me during days in the first year of my life, and then I spent almost all Summers with them from age six to eighteen. Most of them were about ten years older than me, but I perceived them as my best company.

Teenagers in my hood,
my heroes, lean and good,
matured into horror
through diligence and sorrow.
And then they understood,
at least, who could.

My siblings, wrong and sweet,
took chances to complete
community of freedom,
protection, and libido
on river street.

The girls and guys still could
escape illusive feud
resulted in a soul lease
on meadow next to tall trees
to a prolific brute.

Collapsible and split,
like narrow path to meet,
the logic loop is crossed now.
The bonding hoops are worn out,
still lit.