By: Dmitriy Shandra

there’s somebody’s voice inside of yourself:
it’s saturday, fifth of november,
tomorrow is sixth, and the days
that used to trot briskly ahead
now drag on, exhausted horses,
rusted clay of fatigue
on the soles of your shoes
the autumnal sun, leading
the first days of winter by hand
autumn was tough
and winter will be none the easier
here, in the run-up to
fall back into the black lines of sleep
and joy, think not of banality
of your own concerns
they will rise from the snow
as lyrics on your lover’s phone
you are dreaming of cardinal horses
and melted water of the grove
that tastes of resin and blood
these are no words of solace
this is no poetry
you have left everything
now it’s all behind you

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The poet is a paramedic of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.

(Translation by Anna Mishenko, Denis Pinchuk, Bohdan Bondarchuk)