we carry our dead like children
lay them out in the plaza and encircle them

in the frost  the snow  bewildered
as if none of us yet knew
it was so easy to die

everyone still hopes
they will lie there and then get up

for what should we tell their moms
what to tell their children
who will tell them the worst

a person runs to meet a bullet
with a wooden shield
and a hot heart
and a head in a ski helmet
full of blood

mom, I’ve got my hat on   he shouts into a dead phone
mom, his hat is too thin   the bullet hisses

Halyna Kruk (Author) / Dzvinia Orlowsky and Ali Kinsella (Translators)
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