A photo on my cellphone—a mother holding her newborn baby
whose head is wrapped in gauze. The grandmother lies on a cot
staring at them. The gloomy basement, peeling walls.
They seem to hear sirens, shelling, explosions outside.
Another photo—women hold guns,
waiting to be called to the battlefield.
One raises her head, I tremble at her young face.
I see no end to the deep end.
In the chat groups from my motherland, my compatriots
fight online—some burn with anger, some spill words as knives,
some excuse the present by retelling the past, and some prepare a toast.
Suffocated, I drink a glass of sparkling cider, drive to Horn Pond.
Winter and spring battle out here—
Some parts of the pond are still frozen, shining like frosted glass.
Some crack to the blue abyss.
Some flow water with imprinted white clouds.
The swan pair swim to shore,
open their mouths with hissing squeaks.
I don't know if we are friends or foes,
but repeated encounters have formed a ritual.
