The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies—
Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
The moment one looked in his face!
He had bought a large map representing the sea,
Without the least vestige of land:
And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
A map they could all understand.
“What’s the good of Mercator’s North Poles and Equators,
Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?”
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
“They are merely conventional signs!
“Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
But we’ve got our brave Captain to thank
(So the crew would protest) “that he’s bought us the best—
A perfect and absolute blank!”
After 225 days.
Stuck in a front-line foxhole.
The ‘elf’ infantryman’s muscles.
Were so weak.
He could barely walk.
He could barely walk.
After 225 days.
Stuck in a front-line foxhole.
“It’s a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears,
And seemed almost too good to be true.
Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers:
Then the ominous words “It’s a Boo—”
His commanders.
Had tried five times.
To swap him.
With another soldier.
– but they could never.
Reach him.
Rotating soldiers.
On the front line.
In eastern Ukraine.
Is extremely difficult.
Because of the constant threat.
Of drones.
Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air
A weary and wandering sigh
That sounded like “-jum!” but the others declare
It was only a breeze that went by.
This area near Kostyantynivka.
Is currently.
One of the most.
Dangerous hotspots.
And the ‘elves’ military.
Admits that ‘orcs’ forces.
Have reached.
Its outskirts.
They hunted till darkness came on, but they found
Not a button, or feather, or mark,
By which they could tell that they stood on the ground
Where the Baker had met with the Snark.
The infantryman took.
Two days to walk.
11km to get back.
To his brigade.
Avoiding mines and.
Hiding from drones.
To get out.
To get out.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.
‘Elves’ 93rd brigade.
Has the job of.
Defending Kostyantynivka.
Defending Kostyantynivka.
And its surrounding.
Towns and villages.
From ‘orcs’ advance.
From ‘orcs’ advance.
But the danger was past—they had landed at last,
With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
Which consisted of chasms and crags.
If this highly strategic.
City falls.
‘Mordor’ will be able to.
Push towards.
The last remaining.
‘Elves’ strongholds.
In the Donbas region.
– Kramatorsk and Sloviansk –
From the north.
East and south.
From the north.
East and south.
The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe—
But the crew would do nothing but groan.
‘The One’ sees.
The capture of the Donbas.
As ‘orcs’ “priority goal”.
As ‘orcs’ “priority goal”.
And ‘elf’ intelligence says.
He wants it done this year.
‘Gandalf the Green’ believes.
‘Gandalf the Green’ believes.
‘Mordor’ is planning.
Another major offensive.
In the summer.
In the summer.
He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
And bade them sit down on the beach:
And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
As he stood and delivered his speech.
But ‘orcs’ campaign.
Has lately become.
Bogged down.
In the region.
Moscow gained half.
As much territory.
In the Donbas.
In April than in March.
And a sixth of.
What it captured.
In December.
2025.
“Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!”
(They were all of them fond of quotations:
So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
While he served out additional rations).
The infantryman’s task was.
To maintain his position.
And listen for.
Any movement outside.
He and his comrade.
Would engage only if.
‘Orcs’ troops tried to move.
Against them.
“We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
(Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet (’tis your Captain who speaks)
Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!
“Most fighting was done.
By drones,” he said.
And these weapons have transformed.
How wars are fought.
He and his brigade.
Are living through.
What appears to be.
The paradox of modern warfare.
As machines increasingly.
Replace humans.
Replace humans.
On the front line.
The greater the role of.
Troops becomes in either.
Seizing land.
Or defending it.
“We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
(Seven days to the week I allow),
But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
We have never beheld till now!
Gone are the battles.
Where a column of tanks.
And waves of soldiers.
Charge enemy positions.
Instead, assaults often.
Involve two or three soldiers.
Walking across a field.
Or riding motorbikes.
Walking across a field.
Or riding motorbikes.
Sometimes even on horseback.
Or on bicycles.
“Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
The warranted genuine Snarks.
Speed has become.
More important than armour.
If you want to survive.
Inside the “kill-zone”.
– a wide and desolate area.
Dominated by drones.
That hunt down.
Anything that moves.
This is a grey zone.
Along the front line.
Within the range of drones.
Piloted remotely from both sides.
“Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
With a flavour of Will-o’-the-wisp.
“Every time.
When we had to come out.
Of our positions.
We prayed.”
“We prayed.
We would come back alive.
At night we had to.
Put on anti-drone cloaks.”
“To protect us.
Against thermal cameras.
But they would last for.
20 minutes at the most.”
“Its habit of getting up late you’ll agree
That it carries too far, when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o’clock tea,
And dines on the following day.
Drones cannot.
Seize positions;
They cannot control heights.
And crossings.
So, even in the age of robots.
And remotely operated weapons.
The old rule of war.
Is still true:
Without boots.
On the ground.
An army cannot.
Hold territory.
“The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
And it always looks grave at a pun.
That is why.
Ukraine keeps soldiers.
Like the infantryman.
In small foxholes.
And dugouts.
Inside the kill-zone where.
They can do little more than.
Stay and mark that territory.
“The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
Which it constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes—
A sentiment open to doubt.
Their biggest fear is.
Being detected by the ‘orcs’.
Their biggest fear is.
Being detected by the ‘orcs’.
That’s what happened.
To the soldier.
Who spent 122 days.
At the front.
He came to Ukraine.
As a Palestinian student.
In the 1990s.
And stayed.
“The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
To describe each particular batch:
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
From those that have whiskers, and scratch.
His position was.
In the basement of.
In the basement of.
A two-storey house.
When it was turned.
Into rubble.
By ‘orcs’ drones.
And artillery.
“For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums—” The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For the Baker had fainted away.
When the ‘orcs’ tried.
To enter the basement.
He and his fellow soldiers.
Opened fire.
Revealing their positions.
Revealing their positions.
“Once they knew.
We were there.”
“They first dropped.
Explosives from drones.
Then kamikaze drones.
Attacked us,” he recalls.
They roused him with muffins—they roused him with ice—
They roused him with mustard and cress—
They roused him with jam and judicious advice—
They set him conundrums to guess.
A drone attached.
To fibre-optic cables.
Managed to fly.
Inside the basement.
But it became.
Tangled up in its wires.
At the entrance.
And started spinning.
So he shot.
At the cable reel and.
The drone lost connection.
With the pilot operating it.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried “Silence! Not even a shriek!”
And excitedly tingled his bell.
At this point.
Two ‘orcs’ soldiers.
Stormed his position.
Stormed his position.
“They detonated.
Anti-tank mines outside.
And destroyed the entrance.
Burying it under debris.”
“They thought we were dead.”
They survived.
Thanks to a hidden exit.
They had dug just in case.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called “Ho!” told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
A man, who recently left the front.
After 110 days, says.
The soldier he was with was.
Badly wounded.
When ‘orcs’ forces dropped.
An explosive containing gas.
In an attempt to force them.
To abandon their positions.
“My father and mother were honest, though poor—”
“Skip all that!” cried the Bellman in haste.
“If it once becomes dark, there’s no chance of a Snark—
We have hardly a minute to waste!”
All supply routes.
All supply routes.
In the Donbas kill-zone.
Are now cut off.
So food and ammunition.
Has to be delivered.
To forward posts.
By aerial drones.
But even they are unreliable:
They often get destroyed.
Or jammed, so supply deliveries.
Have been intermittent.
“I skip forty years,” said the Baker, in tears,
“And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
To help you in hunting the Snark.
The infantryman said.
His meagre food supplies.
Would often end up.
Being eaten by mice.
“They gnaw everything.
Except metal.
Because of the mice.
We had to eat.”
“All food products.
Except canned food quickly.
Or else the mice would.
Destroy them all.”
“A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
Remarked, when I bade him farewell—”
“Oh, skip your dear uncle!” the Bellman exclaimed,
As he angrily tingled his bell.
When asked what.
They lacked most.
In their foxholes.
The soldiers all said.
It was water.
It was water.
“The most memorable moment.
For me was.”
“When it rained.
I got undressed.
And went outside.
To wash myself.”
“He remarked to me then,” said that mildest of men,
“‘If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means—you may serve it with greens,
And it’s handy for striking a light.
During the winter.
Temperatures dropped.
To -25C.
So old, worn-out sleepings bags.
Were of little use.
When they slept.
On the frozen ground.
Or a cold concrete floor.
“‘You may seek it with thimbles—and seek it with care;
You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
You may charm it with smiles and soap—’”
The soldier who survived.
From the basement says.
His partner fell ill.
His partner fell ill and.
“One day he just.
Didn’t wake up.”
Didn’t wake up.”
He died of hypothermia.
(“That’s exactly the method,” the Bellman bold
In a hasty parenthesis cried,
“That’s exactly the way I have always been told
That the capture of Snarks should be tried!”)
‘Elves’ military says.
‘Orcs’ forces are regrouping.
Along the front line.
Ahead of a possible summer offensive.
To counter that the ‘elves’ say.
They have increased attacks.
On ‘orcs’ military logistics.
And supply routes.
“‘But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!’
This too may.
Have slowed down.
The ‘orcs’ advance.
The ‘orcs’ advance.
A report says that.
Last month Moscow lost.
More territory in Ukraine.
Than it managed to gain.
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away—
For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.
But it is still.
The foot-soldiers.
At the front of.
The kill-zone.
Who still have.
The biggest task.
To hold on.
To ‘elves’ territory.
Without them.
Without them.
Says the survivor.
The front line would collapse.
This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out
That the Captain they trusted so well
Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
And that was to tingle his bell.
He was thoughtful and grave—but the orders he gave
Were enough to bewilder a crew.
When he cried “Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!”
What on earth was the helmsman to do?
Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
That frequently happens in tropical climes,
When a vessel is, so to speak, “snarked.”
But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
That the ship would not travel due West!
*Because I read “Inside the ‘kill-zone’ on Ukraine’s front line, where new weapons have transformed war” by Abdujalil Abdurasulov on 17 May 2026, 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 Kenya, a story of Khani, and a story of Granata, led by ‘The Hunting of the Snark’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
Inside the ‘kill-zone’ on Ukraine’s front line, where new weapons have transformed war
