about

Two slag heaps rise there—one from the “Almaznaya” mine, facing north, the direction from which we’re coming. The other, from the “Dobropilskaya” mine, faces east, the direction from which they’re advancing. Between the slag heaps, beyond the small settlements, lies the Molodizhny neighborhood—a district of five-story prefab apartment buildings overgrown with all the varieties of Donbas roses. And in a courtyard in Molodizhny, among the concrete apartment blocks, a horse stands beneath a dry apricot tree. It stands motionless, its head bowed downward, sinking into the grass that wasn’t cut last year. Quiet! Be quiet. This horse isn’t grazing here—it’s sleeping. Don’t wake it up. Perhaps these are its last dreams in Dobropillia. About the song of anthracite, about the beehives in Sloboda, the backyard dovecotes; About the heavy smell of the slag heap and the asphalt-laden air of the city; About the children playing around him, their weary parents who have gone to the market or to their shift; About roses, cherries, and apricots. About closed mines and the start of the war.

text by

Denys Pankratov

team

Conception Denys Pankratov