Kind, proud, but naive. Peering into the skies. As if they came from there, But voices that have tasted oblivion. They look at the world and are surprised, Forgetting about grievances and death. Life, flowing, does not end. Believe this, at least a little! Braided pipes, tailored hoop. As if he's wearing a spacesuit right now It will open itself if it jumps out The beast is unknown and will attack. They are waiting for salvation, but in doubt. They burn in the fires, waiting for a moment. Maybe they were thrown here to be eaten. Maybe they forgot about them?! Is this really how it all seems? And nothing will happen?! Again in confusion, through the night of oblivion. Himba tribe. Five thousand is the third sublunar year.
Canvas. Oil. 70x100 December 2023
Не каждый смысл находит мгновенно отголоски в хранилище души, но каждому дано задеть струну. Вопрос лишь в том, кто рвёт, а кто старается едва соприкоснуться?! Всему есть своё время и итог...