They won’t compose any songs, because the children of their children,
hearing about this initiation, will jump out of their beds at 4 a.m., frightened
by the echo in their spinal cords. Separate parts of death
cannot form a whole: a quarter of fate or of body is always
The map is worn at the folds.
The doors of the house rust hopelessly, you are on night watch.
At dawn saliva becomes poison in every mouth.
All these piles of ashes still have names
and they keep repeating their persistent calls
sharp like panicked bird shrieks, too extreme for a song
about a field torn apart by a hail of bullets,
about the chornozem that God will rub off in his hand afterwards.