Навіщо. What For

***

In the morning, bullets sowed the soil aplenty.

Maybe they pierced bodies, maybe they flew past them.

Such metallic, selected seeds of weapons,

Maybe they grow and rise faster when there is blood.

Frost won't destroy these deeply stuck seeds,

Come spring, straight wires will grow out of them

And buds of sharp flowers will swell.

Then, the strange field will be pollinated with gunpowder,

And machine-guns will germinate, and grenades.

Just you be careful when tilling the land for them:

The soil is too sensitive, and so it is fruitful.

You can't devise a better bouquet for your lover,

Only it's hard to cut iron stems.

The crop will stand there so sparking,

Full of the bullets of the needed caliber:

Just gather these seeds and crack them with gusto...

...Come autumn it'll rust under the rain,

As nobody'll come to harvest it.

28 November 2014