To Mykhailo Havryliuk and the Heavenly Hundred
Translated from Polish by Mira Rosenthal
What else to write? How they use fire to defend themselves against the winter dark. The city burns, so they take flesh and blood and turn it into a second city inside, with walls of breath. If winter turns
away, the Tsar will wage war against the protesters with metal tanks, false words, and heaps of cash. How there are those who lead a naked man into the snow and beat him, whistle, put a broom into his hand
and coo: just try to Hetman us, you Cossack. Then they order him to pose in their selfies with tarry smoke and brown smudges on snow, staunch proportions in the background. Or how about that moment in the morgue
when, after several hours, all the cell phones placed on the blood-stained table in the hall suddenly began to ring at once, showing the call, the same word flashing on every screen: Mom.