When I am older
next twenty years,
and you are older, too,

we'll sit beneath
the slate blue sky,
and share a drink or two.

We'll toast to friends
who've sailed away
over the great divide,

and think about
the times ahead
just beyond the other side.

So sing sweet songs
to our living boons
who roam with us each day.

Sing sweeter songs
to unforgotten souls
who are never far away.

When I am gone
some thirty years,
and you shall follow soon,

Dear beauteous ghost
Shining nowhere but in the dark
I saw you walking in air
When your light was trampled in the dust
You were at your best but dull and hoary
Mere glimmering and decayed.

Proudly you gathered, rank on rank
As angel in my brighter dream
Called to my soul when I slept
Some strange thoughts transcend
Like some bright stars above the dark abyss
Through the veil, the scary face
Through dust of conflict and flame
Through the voice, I cannot hear

a guelder rose of a dark grassy,
a good father's lassie;
though she didn't go out at night,
but she carried some viburnum, bright.
merchants were buying- she didn't bargain
lads were begging-she didn't donate;
she tied her little feet with samite-
she kept it for her friend Johnny ,a good guy.

translation from Ukrainian "Ethnology for People" by Ivan Petryshyn

My imagination can be a quiet place for argument.
When no one speaks in English,
we argue in Russian, or Ukrainian.

The war somehow survives, that argument.
And more people die.

For politicians that can be agreeable.

For me,
I am a bystander