Not me, but him

Oleg reminds that poetry begins with rhythm. It is from rhythm that time is created, of which so much is said in this book. It is the rhythm that is stored in the memory, it is the loss of the rhythm that leads to oblivion. These are the poems of a musician who acutely and extremely subtly feels the word, its completeness and conventionality. To a large extent, this is a book about the past.

That is, about infinity. Serhiy Zhadan