the sky burns

By Arkady Shtypel

Translated from the Ukrainian and Russian by Philip Nikolayev

***

the sky burns
the war churns
and there are no words
except perhaps
death to the enemy
death to the enemy
death to the enemy

in a distant plane someone
depresses a button

floors fall
the building ignites
the wounded scream
the dead lie in pools of blood
a child resembles a broken doll
survivors of the fire huddle together
ambulances wail
firefighters and rescuers come running

a second strike

another soldier is dead
there’s a funeral in the village
a closed coffin on two stools
a woman wails tearfully
a priest recites a prayer
people kneel
in the wind

a yellow–and–blue flag

tears and rage
tears and rage
tears and rage

* * *

the marvelous form
of living beings

breath
blood circulation
digestion and excretion
active muscles
all those glands
enzyme chemistry
hormones
networks of nerves
with countless sensory endings

the miracle of sight

the brain!
especially our human brain
understanding
imagination
speech

all our words
that we use daily
polished by millions of dead lips
like the sea pebbles
that Demosthenes held in his mouth
to overcome speech impediments

. . . an explosion resounds

* * *

long burrows craters deep depressions
terrain of war
ordnance preserve us from extinction
stand firm and roar

* * *

here is the dnieper there the donets
the black sea swells
where running briskly on its course
a shiplet sails

the wind laments among fresh graves
at the poor cemetery
a fearless flock of sparrows chirps
its plain philosophy

crush of affairs backdrop of flares
the era groans and sizzles
but that which gives our daily bread
also supplies our missiles

time passes for sure
the grasses endure

* * *

can’t think of verses
how many of us
have gone to the skies
can’t think of verses
while clenching teeth
don’t think of verses
god forbid worse
so won’t think of verses
can’t think of verses
in blood of squished cherries
the war the war rages
……………….………
life–giving wheat
wrapped in blue light
far in the valley
a song rings daily
“ah there will be floods again
and laughs
and wine”

* * *

war’s fiery hands
a catchy metaphor
but inappropriate
as it aestheticizes
and adorns war
i.e. endless terror
dirt
stench
gutted mutilated bodies
entrails spilling out
so there’s no need for metaphors
except perhaps this:
war’s most fiery hands
will close
around the enemy’s throats