With a pair of wolves I walk over the stones.
Clouds are pressing on my shoulders,
And someone says that this is the fog over us.
In the church, they gave me the prosphora with your image,
And all the icons and photos had become alien to me a long time ago.
I remember them as I live with a bullet in my heart.
The wolves’ paws are fast but they are waiting for me
The wolves’ love is stronger,
But they are pulling me close to them.
For we are really those ones who killed you.
Somewhere, along this worried way of life,
I woke up dead in your body.
And I became deranged because of the Lord’s grief.
Many thanks to Kate Tsurkan for tireless efforts to get work from Ukrainian writers translated and published quickly, including this piece.