The Doll - Veronica Tushnova

Doll.
(It's a draft, so take it easy)

Moments have leaked out of her memory.
Only one's still there, a pretty childish love:
To the doll, which girl had lost somewhere,
On the direct freazed railway path

Air, full of steam of train engines,
Has flown down, gone to the plain way.
Drops were warm, and whispering with birches,
But no one has noticed there is rain.

Our protectors went into the East,
They'd kept silence, had no water, light;
Full of a sudden, cruel, bitter taste,
On their tongues, after falling bright.

Girl has screamed and asked a lot,
Trying to get off the mother's hands;
Trying to save the doll, because she got a
Lovely smile on her puppet face.

No one had saved that pretty doll;
And the crowd, trying boarding fast,
Trampled to down her into dirty ground,
Near with, the iron railway path...

Death has unknown smell, for a child's nose.
Separating is bad joke for her.
But with ... nonsense, simple little loss,
She starts to feel a touch of a hand of War.

There is no escape from a weird thought.
That is not a doll or just a thing.
This is, maybe, a pretty childhood shard,
Has been left on a direct railway link