A Poem About War and the Loss of a Son in Donetsk

Tell me, tell me a fairy tale. I can't anymore. This is a man lying, blooming in the snow. He is blooming red, like a flower at a bus stop.

Tell me about the cauldron. Or rather, about cats and about new rifles. An axe floats down the river straight to Chuhuiv. Well, let it float on into evacuation. The apricots bloomed early, without waiting for March.

And fire runs across the map and over the skin of the earth. Oh, earth, damp bed! Here is a man, the siren howls, but he stands on his knees amid the tram tracks. And he tries to assemble his son from spare parts. Ah, parodies in the sky. And down the river floats an axe straight to Chuhuiv. Well,

let it float on. Maybe it's for peace after all.

Cities will fall into darkness, the aspen trembles in the wind.

Gather your son, uncle, all across Donetsk. He will rise and go.

He will demand answers for us in heaven. There will be summer, there will be autumn. Somehow he will survive the people. Gather them, my dear. Let them pray secretly for us, sinful, vile ones.

"Mom, Mom, I'm okay. Mom, this isn't happening to me."