‘If that there King was to wake,’
added Tweedledum,
‘you’d go out – bang! –
just like a candle!’
‘I shouldn’t!’
Alice exclaimed indignantly.
‘Besides, if I’m only
a sort of thing
in his dream,
what are you,
I should like to know?’
‘Ditto,’ said Tweedledum.
‘Ditto, ditto!’ cried Tweedledee.
He shouted this
so loud that Alice
couldn’t help saying,
“Look, where the rescue workers.
Are standing.
– that’s the fifth floor.
That hole over there, near them –”
“That’s my flat.
“That’s my flat.
Which used to be.
On the fourth floor.”
“All the furniture ended up.
On the third floor.
The flat is.
No longer there.”
Says a resident.
Of Lviv.
Pointing to.
The damaged building.
‘Hush! You’ll be
waking him,
I’m afraid,
if you make so much noise.’
‘Well, it’s no use your talking
about waking him,’
said Tweedledum,
‘when you’re only
At around 5 am.
At around 5 am.
‘Orcs’ missiles struck Lviv.
Here, in a residential area.
Here, in a residential area.
Near the airport.
Four explosions were heard.
Four explosions were heard.
one of the things
in his dream.
You know very well
you’re not real.’
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
She grew up.
In a flat.
On the fourth floor.
But after her mother’s death.
She didn’t want to.
Move back there.
Firstly, her daughter attends school.
In a different neighbourhood.
The second reason was.
The proximity to the airport.
She felt that.
She felt that.
She and her family would be.
More at ease elsewhere.
So she lived.
In rented accommodation.
‘You won’t make yourself
a bit realler by crying,’
Tweedledee remarked:
‘there’s nothing to cry about.’
‘If I wasn’t real,’ Alice said
– half-laughing through her tears,
it all seemed so ridiculous –
‘I shouldn’t be able to cry.’
In the autumn.
She wanted to replace.
The old windows.
Carry out some repairs.
And then let out the flat.
So that it wouldn’t.
So that it wouldn’t.
Stand empty.
However, she didn’t.
However, she didn’t.
Manage to do so.
In time.
‘I hope you don’t suppose
those are real tears?’
Tweedledum interrupted
in a tone of great contempt.
‘I know they’re talking nonsense,’
Alice thought to herself:
‘and it’s foolish
to cry about it.’
“I came here.
In April this year.
And decided to bring over.
A few old photographs.”
“But, of course.
Most of my things.
Are still there.”
Are still there.”
So she brushed away her tears,
and went on
as cheerfully as she could,
‘At any rate
I’d better be getting out
of the wood,
for really it’s coming on
very dark.
She read about.
What had happened.
To the house.
On Telegram channels.
And then friends rang her.
“A young man lived above us;
I haven’t even heard.
Whether he’s alive or not.”
“As far as I know.
There are two people.
Missing there.”
Missing there.”
Do you think it’s going to rain?’
Tweedledum spread
a large umbrella over
himself and his brother,
and looked up into it.
‘No, I don’t think it is,’
he said: ‘at least
– not under here. Nohow.’
‘But it may rain outside?’
‘It may – if it chooses,’
said Tweedledee:
‘we’ve no objection.
Contrariwise.’
‘Selfish things!’ thought Alice,
and she was just going to say
‘Good-night’ and leave them,
*Because I read “”Прокидаюся вся у склі. Але я жива”. Репортаж з-під розтрощених російським ударом будинків у Львові(‘I wake up covered in glass. But I’m alive.’ A report from among the buildings in Lviv that were destroyed by a Russian strike) ” by Natalia Patrikeeva on 30 Jul 2026 on the BBC news Ukraine, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022 on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, as the story of Roksolana, led by ‘THROUGH the LOOKING-GLASS’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news Ukraine:
