Down through the ages, Russia has tried to kill the Ukrainian identity. They have done everything to present Ukraine as the rural outskirts of the ‘great, educated and advanced’ Russian empire. But the ones who proclaimed themselves enlighteners were merely butchers, murderers. They did everything they could to erase Ukrainian culture, traditions, and even the Ukrainian language itself.

And they are still doing this, even now, literally. During the last eleven years of war, Russia has killed hundreds of people of literature. Writers, poets, translators, editors, publishers and librarians. Ukrainian men and women. As you read these words, others are left to disappear in an unread draft forever.

There is a project called ‘Nedopysani‘ (‘Unfinished‘ in English). It’s a memorial site for people of literature who will never be able to put that final dot in their notebook, who will never be able to take into their hands their first published book. And so, this is our hard and painful mission. This is what we must do for them. It is inevitable.

Today, we present the next instalment of our translation series, ‘Words Live On’. We have done our best, and we hope that it will speak to our Dear Readers in a way that cold, clinical war statistics cannot.

Glory to Ukraine! To our heroes — glory!

A city, where from an abandoned railway track,
And the ruins of a theatre long hushed, grass grows.
’cause there the basements contain more than the roofs.
Maybe, from there something whispers to the grass: “Grow!”
Maybe, one cannot get to know the whole city
’cause the grass has a gift for concealing steps and moves.
One wouldn’t dare to go without the grass’s favour
That swallows the city and a low scream: “Escape!”
And the buzz of kiddies, and the low murmur of a mob…
The grass has flattened the city. But you get to burn the grass…

Місто, де з забутого від залізниці полотна
І від руїн театру, що затих давно, росте трава.
Бо там підвали містять більше ніж дахи.
Напевне, з них й шепочуть тій траві: «Рости!»
Напевне, годі місто те усе пізнати,
Бо має дар трава всі кроки й рухи заховати.
Піти кудись не зважаться без милості трави,
Яка поглине місто і тихий крик: «Втечи!»,
І гомін дітвори, й затвірний гам юрби…
Трава зрівняла місто. А ти траву спали…

Original poem by VASYL DOROSHENKO
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2013