Welcome home, child
You can hear their collective hum. A Memoir by Dmitriy Shandra
Translated by Denis Pinchuk & Bohdan Bondarchuk
On a sweltering afternoon, beneath the dense canopy of green wheat, insects and tiny spirits swarm in abundance, all mingled and indistinct. You cannot see them, but you can hear their collective hum if you dare to venture to the heart of the thicket and recline in the sanctuary of a special spot where the wheat ears nestle into semicircular hollows, the sap dripping onto the fabric of the field as if left by a great weight. No path leads there: the forest trail avoids the field altogether, disregarding, skirting around, bypassing it.
Stalks, leaves, and grains meld into a labyrinthine tangle where no earth is visible, only a mist rising from the ground. Within it, one initially discerns the rustle of insects, purposeful yet meaningless, so faint it scarcely qualifies as a sound. And already, at the very roots, as if through a dream, the murmurs of magical speech take form:
Welcome home, child
In a tranquil place, the verdant slumber spreads outward in concentric circles, laying wheat ears. The celestial mills grind quietly, the air crystallizes, and beads of sweat glint and evaporate on the temples. The truth of eternal noon remains palpable beneath the veil of metaphor.
In a tranquil place, the verdant slumber spreads outward in concentric circles, laying wheat ears.
Silently and impotently, the sleeping figure is flanked by the reapers’ forms. Stalks pass through archaic blades, unmoving, their voyage uninterrupted for centuries. Beneath the mound, within the swamp’s depths, a whitish mass of breasts and thighs awaits: the site where ancient children were sacrificed in the name of love. Sculpted under various names, subdued thousands of years later, already entrenched within men’s cities. The oak tree on the horizon is etched in coal and peat upon which it stands, its roots concealing a boat, a merchant, and golden pitchers—an occasional tribute.
The air carries the sharp scent of grass and impending thunderstorms; the sky swirling like a maelstrom, akin to the river’s serpents; like the ouroboros on my father’s jacket, mockingly biting its tail. Those who seek to decipher his jest, lose.
The storm is coming; it’s time to wake up.
Dmitriy Shandra is a poet from Ukraine, Kyiv. He is a paramedic of the Armed Forces of Ukraine.
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Breathtaking.