Tag Archives: Unfinished

WORDS LIVE ON // Ihor Mysiak

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!

Saltern (to Drohobych)

This is not like dawdling in a bookstore,
looking for the seen and unseen for ages,
look, at this saltern
nobody memorises poems about winter.
There’s stillness, but for wintering
even this is not enough of course,
how do you feel standing near the building
that is older than your entire city…
While the noble trees burn,
crackling beneath the pots,
winter goes slowly to the last stop,
and then what will happen to us?
What will happen? Or is everything in vain?
Snow has dwindled, like guests at the end of a wedding,
how do you feel being at the saltern?
How do you feel being the salt?

Солеварня (Дрогобичу)

Це тобі не сидіти в книгарні,
вічно шукати зриме й незриме,
подивися, на цій солеварні
ніхто не знає віршів про зиму.
Тут є спокій та для зимівлі
і цього не достатньо звісно,
як тобі стояти біля будівлі,
яка старша за твоє місто…
Доки горять благородні дерева,
потріскуючи під казанами,
зима повільно йде на кінцеву,
і що тоді буде з нами?
Що тоді буде? Чи все намарно?
Снігу, як гостей в кінці весілля,
як тобі бути на солеварні?
Як тобі бути сіллю?

Original poem by IHOR MYSIAK
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2020

WORDS LIVE ON // Maksym Kryvtsov

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!

My head rolls from grove to grove
like a tumbleweed
or a ball
my hands severed
will sprout with violets in spring
my legs
will be scattered by dogs and cats
my blood
will paint the world in a brand new red
Pantone human blood
my bones
will absorb into the soil
make a frame
my bullet riddled machine gun
will rust
poor thingy
my spare clothes and loadout
they pass to rookies
and let the spring come sooner
so finally
I can bloom
like a violet.

Моя голова котиться від посадки до посадки
як перекотиполе
чи м’яч
мої руки відірвані
проростуть фіалками навесні
мої ноги
розтягнуть собаки та коти
моя кров
вифарбує світ у новий червоний
Pantone людська кров
мої кістки
втягнуться в землю
утворять каркас
мій прострелений автомат
заржавіє
бідненький
мої зміні речі та екіпу
передадуть новобранцям
та скоріше б уже весна
щоб нарешті
розквітнути
фіалкою.

Original poem by MAKSYM KRYVTSOV
Translation by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2024

WORDS LIVE ON // Artem Dovhopolyi

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

WORDS LIVE ON // Hennadii Havryliv

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