Stork

By Oleksandr Irvanets

Translated from the Ukrainian by Philip Nikolayev

A single strange thought overwhelms my mind —
Or perhaps it’s the thought that feels my pain:
Is the sky closed for storks that make their flight
From the east and the south above Ukraine?

And I nurse this thought under my skull’s dome
As it twists and turns within my skull:
Do they have any hope of reaching home?
Over Volnovakha ? Over Mariupol?

This concern has drowned out my other quests,
Is there anyone here who can kindly tell
How they are supposed to build their nests
In Irpin, in Bucha, in Hostomel?

How will those birds perch on poles and trees,
On slanted rooftops, on ruined things?
And will they be bringing iron babies
To us here, through this war, on their shot–through wings?