Kurama
(Japan)
A POET FROM MYROLIUBIVKA
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
“How do I stay strong?
The love of my land.
And my native village.
And my people.”
“We're peaceful and hardworking.
In our village.
And supported each other.
During the occupation.”
“They shared the last piece of bread.
A lot of people were starving.
We ground wheat seeds.
That had sprouted in a coffee grinder.”
“And baked cakes.
Because there was nothing to eat.”
“This was a horror.
This was simply a horror.”
“‘The One’ and ‘orcs’ will never be forgiven.
Until the end of their world…
For what they did to ‘elves’.
There will be no forgiveness.”
She loves her home village.
It is mostly in ruins now.
But it is easy to see how before the war.
Myroliubivka must have been a peaceful oasis.
In the farmland around the city of Kherson.
All the houses have their own land.
Wild birds perch on the woodpiles.
In search of insects.
Ducks, chickens.
And geese wander through.
The overgrown gardens of owners.
Who fled months ago.
‘Elves’ soldiers, who recaptured.
The village in September.
As they started their push towards Kherson.
Have taken over the few houses.
That have intact walls and roofs.
One of them is hers.
With neat rows of fruit trees.
And roses that need pruning.
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
She is in a safer city.
Nearly two hours away.
In a tiny house.
Lent to her by relatives.
As her great-grandson.
Almost a toddler.
Gurgled and played.
In the room next door.
She said how she longs to go home.
And how her beloved village.
Descended into hell.
When ‘orcs’ captured it in March.
How she survived months of terror.
And how she was beaten.
Cut and raped in her own living room.
She is a composed woman of 75.
A widow who was a teacher.
Until she retired.
And well known locally.
As the village's historian.
At the start of the year.
She did not believe that ‘the One’ would.
Order his men deeper into Ukraine.
With such brutal consequences.
“We considered them to be a fraternal nation.
I couldn't imagine they could do things.
Like that to people.”
‘Orcs’ arrived on 24 March.
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
The first ones came through Crimea.
She said, and behaved well.
Often in wars frontline soldiers are more disciplined.
Than rear echelon troops who follow them.
The worst came from the east.
From militias raised in the separatist.
Pro-‘Mordor’ ‘elves’ regimes.
In Luhansk and Donetsk.
They terrorised the village.
Demanding vodka and wine.
Stealing cars and fuel.
And looting houses.
The militiamen took men away in hoods.
And tortured them.
In at least one case.
Until he died.
She says that the ‘orcs’ troops.
Who were frightening enough.
“Did not consider the militiamen.
To be human”.
The supposed allies fell out.
Dunkenly brawling.
With each other.
And even exchanging gunfire.
A month into the occupation.
She had the chance to leave.
With her daughter.
For territory held by ‘elves’.
But she refused her daughter's pleas.
For her to get to safety.
Because she was hoping.
To safeguard her property.
And especially the collection of documents.
She had assembled.
About the history.
Of her village and her family.
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
Once her daughter and a close friend.
Who lived nearby had left.
She was alone.
Always scared.
Taking medication for high blood pressure.
But finding the strength.
To navigate her way.
Through long, lonely days.
Her dogs would bark.
When strangers approached.
Then, on the night.
Of 13 July:
“At half past eleven.
I heard a very loud knock.
At my window.
My body stiffened.”
“Who could it be?
My face, my body.
My legs, my arms.
Felt paralysed.”
“I closed all the windows.
But one of them was still a little open.
I saw a soldier there.
I hesitated about letting him in.”
“What should I do?
I didn't have anything.
To hit him.
Would I be able to cope with him?”
“When I opened the door.
He immediately punched me in the face.
He knocked out two of my teeth.
And broke my nose.”
“I was covered with blood.
He started beating me in the chest.
With the butt of his rifle.
He hit my body.”
“He started hitting me.
On the head.
I didn't understand.
What I'd done wrong.”
“He pulled my hair.
And since it was dark in the kitchen.
He couldn't see where he was.
And he staggered around the furniture.”
“Then threw me onto the sofa.
And began to strangle me.
I could not swallow water.
For two weeks.”
“Then he took off my clothes and raped me.
He cut my stomach.
Until now, I have scars on my stomach.
The deep ones still haven't healed.”
“The smaller cuts have healed.”
She recognised the man.
Who was aged around 60.
And stank of alcohol.
He was, she thinks.
From a separatist militia.
He had already been to her house.
Stealing diesel.
Then bringing soldiers.
Who had stayed there.
Until she persuaded them.
To leave.
The rapist demanded tobacco.
And beat her again.
With his gun.
When she did not have any.
He opened fire.
Spraying bullets around the room.
She expected to die.
She thought of her family.
“I said goodbye to my children.
My grandchildren.
And great-grandchildren.
I never thought I would stay alive.”
He did not leave until 05:20 the next morning.
Telling her that if she reported.
What had happened to ‘orcs’.
He would come back to kill her.
She stayed with neighbours.
Explaining away her injuries.
By pretending that.
She had fallen into the cellar.
On the phone, the strain.
In her voice told her daughter.
That something terrible.
Had happened.
Her daughter pressed her.
And in the end.
It was a relief for her.
Not to have to hide the attack.
Four days after the rape.
She joined other ‘elves’ who managed.
To get to a local town.
Still occupied by ‘orcs’.
But away from her attacker.
And from there managed to.
Cross the front line.
To re-join her daughter and family.
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
In the kitchen of her borrowed house.
Sitting next to her daughter.
She explained why she wanted to talk.
About her ordeal.
It was the only time.
In an interview.
That lasted around an hour.
That her eyes filled with tears.
In her hand.
She held a bullet.
That the man had dropped.
Before he left her house.
“I want to shout to the whole world.
To stop all this.
To stop this bloody war.
As soon as possible.”
“I want ‘orcs’ to know.
How their husbands.
Their sons, their parents.
Are torturing ‘elves’.”
“How are we guilty?
We are hardworking.
Peaceful people.
We don't disturb anyone.”
“How do I stay strong?
The love of my land.
And my native village.
And my people.”
“We're peaceful and hardworking.
In our village.
And supported each other.
During the occupation.”
“They shared the last piece of bread.
A lot of people were starving.
We ground wheat seeds.
That had sprouted in a coffee grinder.”
“And baked cakes.
Because there was nothing to eat.”
“This was a horror.
This was simply a horror.”
“‘The One’ and ‘orcs’ will never be forgiven.
Until the end of their world…
For what they did to ‘elves’.
There will be no forgiveness.”
She loves her home village.
It is mostly in ruins now.
But it is easy to see how before the war.
Myroliubivka must have been a peaceful oasis.
In the farmland around the city of Kherson.
All the houses have their own land.
Wild birds perch on the woodpiles.
In search of insects.
Ducks, chickens.
And geese wander through.
The overgrown gardens of owners.
Who fled months ago.
‘Elves’ soldiers, who recaptured.
The village in September.
As they started their push towards Kherson.
Have taken over the few houses.
That have intact walls and roofs.
One of them is hers.
With neat rows of fruit trees.
And roses that need pruning.
Source: https://www.koryu-meets-chess.info/
Please read the original story:
Ukraine war: Tales of endurance and hardship as winter looms — BBC News
Read more:
"Aware of a poet?
Aware of a poet?
A poet of Cossack broods over the land.
Not noting a bullet.
Not noting a bullet.
You see a poet of Cossack in Borodyanka."
(Kurama)
.jpg)
Думки українських поетів про рідну країну, їхні відчуття до української землі і нашого народу — все це юні читачі зможуть знайти в представленій добірці віршів про Україну від Ганни Черінь, Юрка Шкрумеляка, Наталки Талиманчук, Іванни Савицької, Уляни Кравченко, Яни Яковенко, Василя Симоненка, Івана Франка, Володимира Сосюри, Катерини Перелісної, Богдана-Ігоря Антонича, Марійки Підгірянки, Миколи Чернявського, Володимира Сіренка, Іванни Блажкевич, Грицька Бойка, Миколи Вінграновського, Платона Воронька, Наталі Забіли, Анатолія Камінчука, Анатолія Качана, Володимира Коломійця, Тамари Коломієць, Ліни Костенко, Андрія Малишка, Андрія М’ястківського, Івана Неходи, Бориса Олійника, Дмитра Павличка, Максима Рильського, Вадима Скомаровського, Сосюра Володимир, Павла Тичини, Петра Осадчука, Варвари Гринько та інших відомих українських поетів.