From Ira Kapitonova in Kyiv (Day 685):
Show us your steadfast love, O Lord,
and grant us your salvation.
Psalm 85:7
In my daily posts, I don’t want to sound very grim. We live in a country that has been cruelly invaded by its neighbor, but life goes on, and there are many signs of God’s faithfulness. However, sometimes, you come across something that punches your breath out of your lungs. Over the past few days, I came across several eulogies for the prominent young men who were killed on the frontlines over the past few days. One was barely in his twenties, a skillful fighter jet pilot. Another one – a tender-hearted poet in his early thirties. Their lives were cut short too soon, and my heart breaks as I think how much could have been done through them.
Still, I don’t want my daily update to be grim. Instead, I want to use this opportunity to share the poem written by the fallen poet Maksym Kryvtsov (translated by Marta Hosovska). Let his words live, and let his words keep changing lives.
“I’ll turn my life around,
I promise.”
In marker on the wall of a
popular spot in Kyiv,
here you will find coffee, pastries, stylish attire, music, and balconies with an incredible view.
I’ve seen
how the fog embraces the skyscraper
gently and quietly.
“Love doesn’t exist,”
written on another floor of this spot.
Nor does the sea,
nor does air,
nor do dreams,
nor me,
but the coffee here is good.
Someone added below:
“Sunshine, who made you think that way?”
Listen, I’ll tell you who:
the swamp, where reaching the blind spot is tough
mines falling nearby,
a winter rope tightly knotted around the neck
parts of a person
scattered
lost in the field
whimsically and unkempt
a dream that forces you to scream
rain when you have a few days left to wait for change
and the sunshine
that descends into the basement
because the air alarm
indeed,
who made you think that way, sunshine?
A short vacation,
a few days with the road,
I meet friends,
mold clay,
for the first time in two years, I bake a cheesecake
which turned out just okay,
with my friend, we watch
as the winter cat catches a street mouse
holding on,
I can breathe
a girl crosses the road
holding a big skinny dog on a leash
the last floors of khrushchyovkas emerge somewhere
like butterfly swimmers
twinkling with garlands
a little more
and I wish to become a part of
the ordinary city again
walk a big dog
fry some eggs
drink coffee in charming bookstores with tall shelves
it’s dangerous
it’s very dangerous
a calm life is an illness
throw away those thoughts
like worn-out slippers
run away from here
to your blind spot
to your swamp
to your mines
I’ll turn my life around
I’ll turn my life around?
I promise.
Voice of Ukraine 