згадуючи досвід сапера.
І все буде добре,
все буде добре,
бо всі вже маємо набутий імунітет до смерті.
18 липня 2014 року
***
"Good evening Mum, how you are?"
I don't hear anything else as there's an explosion of "Grad".
It is very loud.
Very very loud.
So loud there's nothing to compare it with.
And I cry, I cry ferociously: "Hide!!!"
And there the reply is, in between missiles, jokingly:
"Mum, if you're being nervous I won't be calling again."
Then I calmly tell him to put on his helmet
And stick empty cartridges into ears:
5.45 millimeters is best for this.
And I get to know that for five hours
His own mother tries to get through
And he can't answer her
As for her he's in the capital working at a construction site
And there it is usually not so loud as is now where he is.
He's a smart aleck for making himself so comfortable: a son of two mums.
And I only have two daughters,
And I am asking myself:
If he were my own, my native son,
Would I cry any louder
Or fall down at the threshold grabbing his feet
So that he does not volunteer for a Guards battalion,
Does not learn to aim to kill, cannot...
Oh no, I might provoke a curse.
And I don't know the answer.
No, I do have the answer: I really would cry
But in silence, as a fish would.
My son has two mums.
Both are far away now.
Somewhere close is the third, enemy's mother.
She, as the neighbors said,
Fled when her son was killed,
A separatist sniper.
My son was at their flat,
He took away two grenade launchers,
The sights and a pile of rounds.
And then he saw fish.
Their mouths were moving.
They say fish's hearing is very bad.
Maybe they have not heard "Grad" until now.
They are so golden, aquarium.
They are from among those fish that fulfill your desires.
He did not make a wish.
He fed them,
He changed water for them.
Because water has to be clean.
Very, very clean.
Transparent
As our entire today's life.
The flat was sealed of course,
He now asks whether there'll be enough food for them
Until the war ends.
Or until mum comes there.
8 August 2014
***
«Добрий вечір, мамо, як ваші спра…»
Я далі не чую – там вибухає «Град».
Це дуже голосно,
Дуже, дуже голосно,
Так голосно, що навіть немає з чим порівняти.
І я кричу, страшно кричу «Ховайся!!!»
А у відповідь, поміж градинками, жартома:
«Мамо, як ви нервуєте, то не буду дзвонити».
Відтак спокійно кажу, аби вдів свій шолом,
А ще заткнув у вуха патронні гільзи —
Калібр 5, 45 для цього найкращий,
І дізнаюся, що так вже п`яту годину
Рідна мати зранку телефонує,
Він ніяк не може їй відповісти,
Бо для неї — в столиці на будівництві,
Там, зазвичай, тихіше, ніж зараз в нього.
Так влаштувався зручно – в одного сина дві мами,
А в мене лише дві доньки,
І я питаю у себе,
Якби він справді мій, рідний,
Чи ще б гучніше кричала,
Чи падала б на порозі, хапала його за ноги,
Аби не йшов добровольцем гвардійського батальйону,
Не вчився влучно вбивати, не міг…
Ой, ні, ще наврочу.
І відповіді не маю.
Ні, маю, таки кричала б,
Але мовчазно, мов риба.
У сина мого дві мами,
Обидві зараз далеко,
Десь поруч третя, ворожа.
Вона, сказали сусіди,
Втекла, коли сина вбили,
Снайпера-сепаратиста.
Мій був у їхній квартирі,
Забрав два гранатомети,
Приціл і купу патронів,
А далі побачив рибок,
Вони сіпали ротом.
Кажуть, риби дуже погано чують,
Мабуть, навіть досі не чули «Граду».
Золоті такі, акваріумні,
З тих, що здійснюють три бажання.
Він не загадав,
Нагодував,
Змінив їм воду,
Бо вода має бути чистою,
Дуже чистою,
Дуже, дуже чистою,
Прозорою,
Як все наше нинішнє життя.
Квартиру опломбував, звичайно,
Тепер питає, чи вистачить рибкам корму,
Доки війна скінчиться,
Чи доки мама прийде.
8 серпня 2014 року
To Vadim Antonov,
a soldier of the "Donbas" Battalion
His nickname is Airplane,
For Antonov liner
Was downed today...
His friends had twice wanted to carry his body away:
A wall of fire,
Enemy's ambush;
They'll go for the third time.
Just yesterday he was joking
That the volunteers
Who went to war from Maidan
Should have their sperm collected by doctors
And saved
For their wives and beloved
And those girls they don't know
But who'll cry later,
When they see his face framed in black,
And say:"Why is it the best who die?"
And thus they would have a chance
To bear a boy,
Or even better, a girl,
Two, three girls
With the smile like his,
A really wonderful smile.
How unfunny his joke is,
How painful.
Even my face is twisted
As if I have bitten something sour.
It's not yet the season for Antonovka apples
But the boys are shaking them off the branches.
And the apples fall down, they do fall down,
They return to the ground.
Let them grow!
10 August 2014
Вадиму Антонову,