Go, stalk the red deer o’er the heather,
Ride, follow the fox if you can!
But, for pleasure and profit together,
Allow me the hunting of Man,
The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul
To its ruin, the hunting of Man.
by RUDYARD KIPLING (1865-1936)
Public Domain Poetry
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!
Soon I will be broken by cracked days
And torn in halves by the final nights,
If water erodes a stone to nothing –
I wake up in the sea, an abyss inside me.
And when distance ruins the last piece
Turns a confession into sinful fruits –
You go through the vastness of numb galaxies
And wash your face, touching the water.
Your breath will touch my pain,
There is water in the air and, sure, the ash,
You lock your palms over fate’s bosom
And the circle will close in your arms.
Then you will forgive the word “we”,
For such disbelief and unwillingness to fight,
I will leave, sweetheart, the poems with you,
As the depths of darkness do not need more.
And I will be waiting from weary till failure,
From trials till the final days,
I will be waiting ages later,
From ferries and till the dream gates.
Мене скоро зламають розтріскані дні
І навпіл розірвуть фінальні ночі,
Якщо камінь в ніщо вода розточить –
Я прокинуся в морі, безодня в мені.
Й коли відстань зруйнує останній клаптик,
Перетворить зізнання в гріховні плоди –
Ти пройди крізь простір німих галактик
І омий обличчя, торкнувшись води.
Твій подих торкнеться мойого болю,
В повітрі вода і, звичайно, прах,
Ти долоні зімкни на грудях долі
І замкнеться коло в твоїх руках.
Ти тоді пробачиш за слово «ми»,
За безвір’я таке й небажання бою,
Я вірші, кохана, залишу с тобою,
А решти не треба глибинам пітьми.
А я буду чекати від втоми до злому,
Від перешкод до фінальних днів,
Я буду чекати століття потому,
Від переправ і до брами снів.
Original poem by ARTEM DOVHOPOLYI
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2025
Gone! and they return no more,
But they leave a light in the heart;
The murmur of waves that kiss a shore
Will never, I know, depart.
Gone! yet with us still they stay,
And their memories throb through life;
The music that hushes or stirs to-day,
Is toned by their calm or strife.
Gone! and yet they never go!
We kneel at the shrine of time:
‘Tis a mystery no man may know,
Nor tell in a poet’s rhyme.
by ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN (1839-1886)
Public Domain Poetry
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 first instalment of our new 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!
we all will die
so it seems, that life has no meaning.
all meaning is in us, in a human head.
we set the vector of meaning on our own.
that’s why we invented a god.
based in
our image and after our likeness.
by ourselves
in ourselves
but i assure you
living – mandatory
ми всі помрем
і схоже, що у житті нема сенсу.
усі сенси у нас, в людській голові.
ми самі задаєм вектор смислу.
тому і придумали бога.
на основі
образу і подобі.
самі по собі
з себе
але запевняю
жити – треба
Original poem by HENNADII HAVRYLIV
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2025
unbolt me 