From: Ira Kapitonova in Kyiv (Day 1211)
As I sat down to gather my thoughts for my daily update, I came across the poem of Liudmyla Gorova. She has the gift of weaving the words together in a way that touches the deepest strings in your heart. As I read her poem, I knew I needed to share it with you because it captures my heart.
Below is my translation (please forgive my inaccuracies).
Look down, o God, at these ferocious hearts that are no saints,
At their weary eyes that hide dark circles.
They are exhausted and fatigued, but look –
The pair of wings that each of them is carrying.
My gracious God, just look at these great folks.
They speak in poems as they tell of anger and despair.
They walk through water, fire, ruin, even death,
Yet they become more beautiful and stronger.
These people find ways where there are none.
They find hope, though expectations change with morning missiles.
They are betrayed, yet they will go to bed
And keep close power banks, some water, and rescue whistles.
They are accepting Kharkiv’s cats as their own
They will be honest in their malevolence and fury.
These people (odd as it may be) will quote
And love and appreciate their poets.
The heat of their palms brings bats to life.
They weep when swifts come home from winter travels.
They will paint flowers on the walls of their bunkers.
They will stand firm when even steel will crumble.
They will dry apricots in sun rays in their yard
Just next to crater that once was their house.
They will make videos, as people need to know
No need to worry, people are alive,
But you can chip in to fix equipment.
These people share hugs without deceit
They dance like children under June rain showers.
Their children are a lifetime older than their peers.
They greet the captives, some of whom they know by name.
They freeze during the mourning minute of silence.
They don’t lock doors and stay away from windows
They share water with the stork and crow in midday heat
They make gourmet desserts from their best cheese
They will plant lavender and scatter flower seeds.
During attacks, they will be singing in the shelters,
On metro stations serenading Kyiv.
These gentle people, their fragile hearts
Will shatter at the sight of grandma’s tears.
Yet they make do with curses, prayers,
Jokes and silent outcries.
They may lose sleep, and they may lose their strength
They may lose their head, their loved ones, their kin,
Their limbs, or eyes…
But, my God, their wings…
No matter what
These people won’t give up their wings
At any price.
Voice of Ukraine 