How can we kill them—they look like us.
………………….…………—soldier in Ukraine
An old man, who limped like uncle Alexi, stumbled,
and we shot him. He had a gun, yes, but he wore a cap
like the one you knit for me. One wore a coat like father’s,
he tumbled off a bridge into the river. When I shot one running
into the forest, his hands flew up like brother Oleg, twitching.
I remember grandfather Sasha shouting when he was disturbed
too early, before his tea. Here a greybeard shouted as we passed,
and my commander shot him on his doorstep. One my age, when
he was hit, cried out “Arina!” Who will have to tell her? If I die,
who will tell you? I can’t sleep. I see these faces everywhere.
When my gun is cold, I am afraid. When it is hot, I am ashamed.
What will happen to children here, like our Slava, Vasyl, Ksenia?
And if I live, after I have a hero’s welcome, tell me, mother,
after you hold me in your arms, what will happen to me?