Waka is 'the music of the Primes'

The fact that we evacuated.

Is a blessing.

But my soul and thoughts.

Are with Bucha.

 

And with all.

The heroic cities.

With the people.

Who are trapped.

 

With the children.

Who should not.

Be involved.

In the war at all.

 

 

Those were terrible days.

When neither your yard.

Nor your house.

Belongs to you.

 

Nor even your life.

Belongs to you.

There is no electricity.

Water, gas.

 

It was forbidden.

To go out.

If you did.

They would shoot you.

 

Enemy vehicles.

Drove into our yard.

On 5 March.

They broke the windows.

 

On 5 March.

They broke the windows.

Broke in and.

Took the phones.

 

On 6 March.

They took my father.

And my husband.

For interrogation.

 

They found correspondence.

And calls to the Territorial Defense.

We tried to leave and learn.

A little about the situation.

 

They watch everything.

Posts, telegram channels.

And if you write something.

They don’t like, you’re dead.

 

They shoot people.

Around the house.

What a terrible sound.

You just sit in the basement.

 

And pray for your family.

To come back.

And we were lucky.

There was a commander.

 

Who loves children.

And knowing that.

My three-year-old daughter.

Was in the basement.

 

He ordered to.

Move the vehicles.

And not to frighten her.

They brought food.

 

They brought water.

And sweets for the kids.

Our men were returned.

They could not prove their guilt.

 

‘Trolls’ had gone.

Before this group of soldiers.

A little earlier and.

Miraculously passed our house.

 

The commander said that.

If they had entered.

We would not.

Have been there.

 

They are taking revenge for.

The earlier broken convoy.

And do not even know.

Whom to kill.

 

We were lucky.

We were lucky.

The next three days.

Passed in the cold.

 

We sat in the basement.

In terrible fear.

And to the sound.

Of shelling.

 

People who had fled.

From Hostomel were brought.

Into the house.

15 people.

 

We tried to feed everyone.

If it wasn’t for my dad.

We would have sat.

All hungry.

 

On 10 March.

We heard on the radio.

That the green corridor.

Was opening from 9 o’clock.

 

And we realised that.

We had to get out.

We asked them if.

We could take the baby out.

 

They said no.

Not by car.

It would be a firing squad.

We decided to walk.

 

A pram, a white flag.

A minimum of stuff.

We drove round.

The corpses of civilians.

 

How many of them.

There were.

Which had been lying.

There for days.

 

I did not explain.

Anything to the child.

Because I did not.

Know how.

 

There were ‘orcs’.

In almost every yard.

Suddenly, the command.

“Freeze!” sounded.

 

And we froze.

With our hands up.

And our daughter.

Raised her hands too.

 

We missed two checkpoints.

And at the third one.

We were not allowed.

To pass.

 

They turned us back.

And said that the corridor.

Would open at 3pm.

Desperate.

 

We went back and waited.

One more attempt.

We could not look back.

Only forward.

 

A car with civilians flied out.

In front of us.

Hit a mine.

And blew up.

 

There was almost nothing.

Left of the car.

The road ahead.

Was mined.

 

The men were in front.

I was in the back.

With the pram.

Through mines.

 

Through corpses.

Through broken equipment.

And then through the swamp.

We made our way to freedom.

 

Finally we were met.

By our soldiers and.

Handed over to the guys from.

The Ministry of Emergency Situations.

 

We got on buses.

And drove off.

We arrived at an ‘orcs’ checkpoint.

And waited for 4 hours.

 

The news was bad.

They wouldn’t let us in.

We had to spend the night.

In the bus right on the road.

 

Not many people knew about.

These humanitarian corridors.

At these checkpoints.

And they pissed them off.

 

Meanwhile.

It was getting dark.

And rockets started.

Flying over us.

 

We found a basement.

Women and children.

Went there.

It was -10 outside.

 

The sewage system.

In the basement burst.

And in this stench.

Horror and cold.

 

We sat until morning.

In the morning again.

Our military negotiated.

To let us through.

 

And this time.

We were lucky.

And this time.

We were lucky.

 

One last push.

An enemy roadblock.

My heart sank.

They could fire at any moment.

 

And we drove into.

The territory controlled.

By our troops.

We are safe for now.

 

But the psyche is blown.

We have changed.

Nothing will ever be.

The same again.

 

We try to.

Communicate normally.

Even joke.

A little.

 

 

But when you close.

Your eyes.

You immediately.

See the road.

 

Full of corpses.

And how we freeze.

With our hands up.

Waiting for their decision.

 

 

The fact that we evacuated.

Is a blessing.

But my soul and thoughts.

Are with Bucha.

 

And with all.

The heroic cities.

With the people.

Who are trapped.

 

With the children.

Who should not.

Be involved.

In the war at all.

 

 

But when you close.

Your eyes.

You immediately.

See the road.

 

Full of corpses.

And how we freeze.

With our hands up.

Waiting for their decision.

 

 

*Because I read “«Объезжали коляской трупы мирных жителей. Не знала, как объяснить это ребенку». Исповедь жителей Бучи”(“Driving round the corpses of civilians with a pram. I didn’t know how to explain it to my child”. Confessions of Bucha residents) on 4 Apr 2022, on The Insider, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, as a story of Кристина(Christina).

«Объезжали коляской трупы мирных жителей. Не знала, как объяснить это ребенку». Исповедь жителей Бучи (theins.ru)