The recording of Maksym Kryvtsov reading his poetry is playing as his body is being carried in a coffin.
— Julia Tymoshenko 🇺🇦 (@YuliaTymosha) January 11, 2024
This is impossible to forgive. Every russian is responsible. pic.twitter.com/I4QyDKOu4n
por Maxim Kryvtsov
- morreu no passado dia 7 , foi hoje a enterrar
Poeta ucraniano e soldado, testemunha das atrocidades cometidas pelos orcs nos subúrbios de Kiev, Bucha e Irpin, na primavera de 2022
Tradução para o inglês por Sergei Mosyakin
Maxim Kryvtsov
He moved to Bucha in mid-March 2021
rented a small apartment in the basement and got a cat
whose fur color was Fondant Éclairs.
He went to English classes, to the gym, and to confession
he liked to watch how snow falls
and streets disappear in the fog.
He listened to Radiohead, old Okean Elzy albums
rain, thunder, and the heartbeat of the girl
he fell asleep with in a small basement apartment
and woke up in a small basement apartment
kissed her warm face
hugged her sticky body
plunged his palm into the waves of her hair
and trembled there as a fly on the web.
She left him in the fall
as birds leave forests
as engineers leave a factory at the end of their shift
and went to Poland
to stay there.
He took a cat that looked like a cream cake
and said: Cat, we have to go
with us, like the morning
like life
like disease
just happened
this ice-cold
war
the lesson called "Quiet Life" is over.
The street disappears in the fog
the rain falls
they don't listen to him at all
the Cat ran out into the field and his name is Wind.
On the cross, like on an ID card, it is written:
Number 234, rest in peace.
She dreamed of a trip to Patagonia
of romantic love with a rock musician
of her reincarnation as a queen or a fish.
She planned to write a book
about the memory
as fragile as the crust on crème brûlée
as vulnerable as love
which flows like sand between fingers
and disappears
vanishes
and is gone.
She loved her bicycle
ice cream with condensed milk
she collected yellow leaves
like post stamps
liked to look at the clouds
scattered like popcorn
dropped by a careless boy in the cinema.
She traveled to the mountains alone
to inhale the forest and air
gathered mint and fireweed
collected stars, placing them in her memory
as in a photo album.
Her father fell dead in 2014
she was fourteen when her mother went to Italy
and never came back.
She had no relationships because she was waiting for a rock musician.
When winter decided to stay
at least until next autumn
announcing that loudly and painfully
and the streets smelled of
terrifying silence
fire and earth
crows flew away, but she did not lose her mind
she took from the top shelf a jar
with dried fireweed and thyme
brewed the herbs
poured the tea in a flask
and brought it to the checkpoint
for the guys from a Territorial Defense unit.
On the cross, it is engraved like a tattoo:
Number 457 rests here, rest in peace.
She lived next to the park
in a small house
fed squirrels
fed dogs
fed drunkards
she was the keeper of autumn
the keeper of memories
scattered like sugar.
She was 54
she worked at a utility company
wore a blue Epicenter robe
and rode a bicycle.
She painted her nails crimson
painted her lips crimson
and crimson dreams came to her every night. She watched "Ukraine Speaks"
wiped her tears with a white handkerchief
recalled her childhood how warm the sun was then
read Kokotiuha's bestseller before going to sleep
and plunged into her dreams like a swimmer into the water
into dreams crimson like nails
crimson like lips.
She waited for Saturday
to clean the rooms
to wash her clothes
to cook an apple pie
and to think about the past.
They killed her on the fifth of March
when she was going back to her street
riding a bicycle
killed as night kills day
as autumn kills summer
crucified by bullets
from a KPVT heavy machine gun.
On the cross, like on a bulletin board, it is written:
here rests Number 451, rest in peace.
New Golgothas emerged
on the streets and in fields
only with bullets instead of nails
only with artillery instead of spears.
We wanted
to count the days until summer
count kittens
count children
count stars
count to hundred to count ourselves to sleep.
Number 176 rests here, rest in peace
Number 201 rests here, rest in peace
Number 163 rests here, rest in peace
Number 308 rests here, rest in peace.
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