We are hiding behind the mountains We are now separated by the sea and many kilometers We are disappearing from the maps of our native places We're going into the woods We're pouring into stone We are not going to protest We're going underground Deeper - to the bones of our ancestors. We learn other people's words We bear the cross of the state.

Author: Freya Payne Tanya Kuznetsova, a Russian artist based in Stirling, is known for her illustrated books, her printed textiles and her drawings of Scottish landscapes. This year I have been living with one of her calendars, which I want to celebrate here. It has 12 tender drawings of hills, villages or sea views. Whilst a calendar may be a hum drum object, having a month with each image has gifted the slow time needed to fall under the magic of her story telling.

City of Stray Dogs And ancient churches. Do you hear the traveler crying? In the shade of a tangerine? Where is your home, wanderer? - Far away, beyond the mountains, There is a fortress there, Red like a flame. - What are you looking for, traveler? In this alien land? - I'm looking for freedom between the southern slopes. - Was he a slave? Are you in your native land? - I flew away like a falcon Away from the wolf pack. Here the pomegranates will sing, Juice is like blood.

There is a revelation in the rain - hidden tenderness. Federico Garcia Lorca Is it a whisper or a noise? The rain touches the ground. The rain has come: listen, And the mind follows the mind. Sleepy grape vines, Unripe tangerines, Not faded, but timid Rose Concerns. How sonorously the streams beat, Coming from the mountains! Floods the dark courtyard: Tree, fruit and my shelter.

Wisteria entwined the temple, And the bell A voice rang across the mountains Easy and free. And waiting for Christ And Sundays A bright star twinkled In the spring night. In an unknown language The service was read, And we are far from home And in a foreign land - Here we are, under the weight of the day Shoulders hunched, We stand, involved in the fire, And we hold candles. And let us not know the words of prayers And the songs here, We will say to each other: “Christ is Risen!” 16 Apr' 23

Kira Muratova is the author of films about the apocalypse, which cannot end, which begins anew and takes place according to the same algorithm and explains the devastated rituals, but in no way can eliminate the horror of its "new" onset. "Asthenic syndrome" (1989) by Kira Muratova — reflections on the nature of cinema, on the subject as part of a certain social order.

I'm a whirlwind in a glass And compete With a hurricane <……> * I'm not given Spoon taps on glass edge I'm falling out A handful of scale To the very bottom Inflorescences of words Ripe cherries of tenderness matured Cherry juice Jealousy It's pouring down your chin Drops fall on the neck, collarbones Oozing From capillaries But - Nothing will happen. The whirlwind in the glass will subside, Drink. The water has become clear In it There is only a handful of scale at the bottom.

I feel it I feel it Oshaya and Odessa Darkness of the forest Thick Meat Raging Devils of hell Basilisk nearby And asp Poison Pimples They're prowling everywhere looking looking looking A thousand fell From country Yes, we are detached Not involved Not baptized We are not dumb But we're not there And not the poisonous flesh of Christ Eucharist on the lips Those who have not tasted Those who didn't drink blood Blood not shed Extras everywhere Won't come any closer Arrow to us Yes, guide us in

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To dad While you scratch the sky with your branches, Pushing your trunk higher, The roots are deeper and more constant They grow silently into the ground. You reach for the sun - mighty shoulders Having straightened, you fight with the wind, And the roots are more tender and endless The nets are woven meter by meter. Proud of his crown in the summer haze You give shelter to birds And the roots find water through the clay, Where the old leaves rot.

I dreamed of a big bird Stuck in the web And the wings are tired of beating, And the tears froze in my eyes. In church I prayed to the Banner: A wax candle fell Having barely partaken of the flame, What was burning in the lamp. The face of the Mother of God was darkened, And the sky of Tiflis cried. Alarm bell in the belfry. Anxious birds are flying. And the clouds to the east thickened. Under the gaze of stern saints Many people prayed So that death passes them by.