Lady dear, if Fairies may
For a moment lay aside
Cunning tricks and elfish play,
‘Tis at happy Knowledge-tide.
The day ‘orcs’.
full-scale invasion began.
His dad told him.
He might never see him again.
“The building in our street.
Got blown up.
Dad said.
‘I’m going to do.’”
“‘I’m going to do.
Everything I can.
So that you can live.
A normal life.’”
Days later.
His father had joined.
The military and left.
For the front line.
The fifteen-year-old boy.
Is sharing memories.
Of his dad with.
49 other ‘elves’ children.
Sitting around a campfire.
They hold candles.
To commemorate.
Their missing loved ones.
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
The gentle slopes of.
Ukraine’s Carpathian mountains.
Smothered in.
Brilliant green spruce.
And fir trees.
Stretch into the distance.
It’s a striking backdrop.
For this heartbreaking scene.
You’re in the relative safety.
Of western Ukraine.
‘Orcs’ bombs.
Rarely fall here.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
A little girl talks about.
When the full-scale invasion began.
“The first time.
We got bombed.”
“My hands were shaking.
And I was crying.
It took me a long time.
To cope with that.”
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
This campfire activity is.
A kind of group therapy session.
It’s part of.
A pioneering summer camp.
For a very special group.
Of ‘elves’ children.
Those with a parent who has.
Disappeared during the war.
Some are soldiers.
Missing in action.
On the front line.
Presumed dead.
Some are in captivity.
Or trapped.
In occupied areas.
In occupied areas.
The ‘elves’ government says.
More than 70,000 people.
Are officially listed.
As missing.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
The charity that runs the camp.
Helps thousands of.
Traumatised children.
Across Ukraine.
And runs several
Summer camps.
But this is the first.
For this category of children.
“Many of these children.
Have multiple traumas.
Because not only are.
Their fathers missing.”
“But some of them.
Have uncles.
And grandmothers.
Missing too.”
Explains the head psychologist.
At the charity.
“They’re living like.
In a frozen state.”
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
“They cannot plan.
Something in the future.
Because they do not know.
What the future will bring.”
“And we cannot work.
With them like.
“With children.
With actual loss.”
“Because they do not have.
This point of starting grieving.”
She says many of.
The children spend hours.
Trawling ‘orcs’.
Social media channels.
Desperately searching for.
Information about.
Their family members.
The channels often contain.
Violent content.
Related to the war.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
“They feel fear of crying.
They think that.
If they start crying.
It will continue for forever.”
“This type of trauma.
Is maybe.
The most difficult.
To work with.”
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
The day after.
The campfire meeting.
The boy wants to tell you.
More about his dad.
The last time.
He heard from him was.
The day before he disappeared.
In November 2023.
“He sent a video of them.
All drinking tea.
In the forest and.
Wrote me a message saying.”
“‘Everything’s fine.
I’ll call you tomorrow.’”
“‘Everything’s fine.
I’ll call you tomorrow.’”
The next day.
His mum got a phone call.
Saying his dad was.
Missing in action.
“I started calling.
His mobile.
Dad didn’t answer.
That was it.”
“I was sitting there.
And I started crying.
I realised I wouldn’t see.
My dad for a while.”
“I kept hoping.
Until the end that Dad is.
A prisoner of war somewhere.
Even now I still hope.”
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
His trauma only intensified.
After his mum began to.
Look into the circumstances.
Of his dad’s disappearance.
Initially she was told.
By the military that.
Her husband was missing.
Following an airstrike.
On his position.
“Then someone else called mum.
The chief of something-or-other.
And said.”
“The ‘orcs’ shot everyone.
And someone saw.
Dad’s body lying there.
Without any legs.”
“Then another soldier.
Who was at Dad’s position.
Said they saw him dead.
With shrapnel wounds to the head.”
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
He says the effect.
On both him.
And his mother.
Was profound.
“Mum cried a lot.
Because of that.
I supported her.
When Dad left, he said.”
“‘No matter what happens.
You must look after Mum.
Because you’re a man.
And you’re her son.’”
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
Group therapy.
At the camp.
Takes place daily.
Held in small rooms.
One psychologist shows.
A colour chart.
To the children.
Used to describe emotions.
Green is happy.
Blue is sad.
Yellow is anxious or overstimulated.
And red is anger.
Today, they’ll be.
Discussing sadness.
The more unpleasant.
And sad we feel.
She says, the more we love.
The people we are sad about.
That shows these people.
Are important to us.
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
The children are.
Encouraged to express.
Their feelings.
Including through art.
At an art therapy session.
Many of the paintings.
Show happy families.
Houses and pets.
One seven-year-old boy.
Tells you his painting is.
Called “Daddy comes home.”
It shows.
Yellow stick men.
In front of a blue sky.
– the colours of.
The ‘elves’ flag.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
Many of the children live.
In cities that come under.
Near-constant bombardment.
By ‘orcs’ drones and missiles.
Like the 16-year-old girl’s.
Hometown of Kharkiv.
In the north-east of Ukraine.
Close to the frontline.
“If there’s bombing nearby.
I go and shelter.
In the corridor.
I worry and stress a lot.”
Her father was.
Also a soldier.
He disappeared.
Around a year ago.
On the frontline.
She last saw him.
Two weeks before.
He went missing.
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
You ask her.
What memories of.
Your father she has.
And her eyes glisten.
“He was very kind.
He spoilt me a lot.
He had a sweet tooth.
Like me.”
“And always knew.
What treats to buy me.
I remember.
Only the good things about Dad.”
“The only sad thing.
I remember is.
That he disappeared.
I love him very much.”
“And I know.
He loves me too.
I hope we can make.
New memories with him again.”
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
This camp also offers.
The kids a chance.
To catch up on sleep.
Uninterrupted by air-raid sirens.
– and to just have.
Fun and play.
– and to just have.
Fun and play.
There are regular trips.
To the swimming pool.
Hikes and games.
Of volleyball.
“It’s important for the body.
To make movements.
In order to heal the trauma.”
Explains the head psychologist.
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
At the camp closing ceremony.
It’s time for.
The children and staff.
To say goodbye.
One boy is.
In floods of tears.
– he doesn’t want.
To go home.
“We have a child.
Like this in every camp.”
Smiles the founder.
Of this charity.
Without, the frost, the blinding snow,
The storm-wind’s moody madness –
The magic words shall hold thee fast:
Thou shalt not heed the raving blast.
She points to.
The throngs of children.
Playing in the garden.
“Maybe for the first time.”
“Maybe for the first time.
In their lives.
They’ve found people who.
Went through the same experience.”
“And it’s very important.
Group therapy is.
More important.
Than anything.”
“- to see you’re not alone.
With the pain.”
“- to see you’re not alone.
With the pain.”
And though the shadow of a sigh
May tremble through the story,
It shall not touch with breath of bale
The pleasance of our fairy-tale.
She says the scale.
Of the task.
Facing her charity.
Is overwhelming.
“Millions of ‘elves’ children.
Are traumatised by war.
This is a humanitarian catastrophe.”
This is a humanitarian catastrophe.”
Thus, forgetting tricks and play
For a moment, Lady dear,
We would wish you, if we may,
Merry Independence Day, glad Knowledge Day.
*Because I read “Their loved ones are missing at war. So these Ukrainian children spend summer together” by Will Vernon on 11 Aug 2025, and also “Why are Ukrainians calling Russians ‘orcs’?” by James FitzGerald on 30 Apr 2022, on the BBC news.
So, I wrote this poem, including a story of Dima, a story of Vanui, a story of Olena, a story of Zahar, a story of Nastia, a story of Ilya, and a story of Oksana, with the greetings from the Author of ‘ALICE’S ADVENTURES in WONDERLAND’ and ‘THROUGH the LOOKING-GLASS’, Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original stories on the BBC news:
‘I must look after mum now’: Summer camp for children of Ukraine’s missing
