Poems By Mykola Martyniuk

* * * There are woundsin our pastfrom the Tatar toxic herbswhich turned to dustof dried out scenes of fireТhey mar us still todaywith the legacy of their worldOur future has a sharp smellof freshly cut acorusAnd webla blababbleflinging sharplyback the old rakeand we will cover our headsobstinately thickwith ashesThank Godwe are not endowedby countless Tatarsand janissarieson the intersectionsand alongthe […]

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