When I came Home to Mezyn

When I came Home to Mezyn



When I came home to Mezyn on the banks of Desna river,
no wine tasted good to me.
My mother's knitting a shawl large enough for my neck.
Dark cloud hovering over everything;
my job is not to disappear.
I shall rest a few days before
returning to trenches filled with stench of death.
The tranquil farm, the clean sheets, the pillows spread, the
home-made bread.
For long hours, wordless, I gaze outside the window,
beneath the still, grieving sky
untold species of chirping bird
in lowly yet intricate chorus
praise the natural world,
the veiny white geranium, golden-eyed lilacs, the
eyebright sun flowers, the wild strawberry, the lawn
of daffodils, cow-wheat and milkworth.
I walk my dog across the field
with slow, painstaking but staggering steps,
like an exhausted moonfarer, gloomy like
anguished blood, gripped with malice.
The moon softly creeps, I fall asleep and
wake in the middle of the night, my head filled with horror --
the mutilated bodies, the fierce firefights, the civilians piling on the
sidewalks, the starving dogs, the charred tanks. And yet, I shall be a happy man again, rifle in hand, nodding to duty, the higher calling to be free.