A Poem from Ukraine March 16, 2022 by Vasyl Stus translated by Artem Pulemotov

 So many words; they are like crippled ghosts!

They strike, like bullets, far and close by
But always miss the essence of my life;
They come in rows.
Through these deceitful words I walk and shamble.
There is a fight; I’m on the battlefield,
Where all my soldiers are the words I wield,
And treason’s sown by memories that scramble . . .
Don’t end up fooled when in the good you trust,
And don’t get lost in your afflictions’ mire.
As one remembers things, one grows more tired;
The day I tire, I will die and thus
Hide in the hues of night unseen by most,
Where they don’t know happiness or wrath,
Where they don’t live but chew their own death.
So many words; they are like crippled ghosts!