‘Elves’ knew.
A huge strike was coming.
Since ‘Mordor’ threatened.
To step up attacks.
On the capital, Kyiv.
About a week ago.
Many spent nights.
In underground shelters.
“For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light:
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright.”
You were two floors underground.
And yet you could feel and hear.
The massive explosions above.
Then came the ‘orcs’ drones.
Possibly carrying more explosives.
Or scouting out the damage.
Done by the missiles.
Then more missiles.
They shuddered to think that the chase might fail,
And the Beaver, excited at last,
Went bounding along on the tip of its tail,
For the daylight was nearly past.
Even though Moscow had said.
Its attacks would get much worse.
This one was not much different.
From what Kyiv had seen already.
This one was not much different.
From what Kyiv had seen already.
Many times.
Yet again.
Yet again.
‘Mordor’ said it would strike.
Military targets.
But civilians suffered.
“There is Thingumbob shouting!” the Bellman said,
“He is shouting like mad, only hark!
He is waving his hands, he is wagging his head,
He has certainly found a Snark!”
As they emerged from shelters.
After the attack.
Many were shocked to see.
Their neighbourhoods.
Many were shocked to see.
Their neighbourhoods.
Completely transformed.
For the worse.
Windows smashed.
Cars turned into.
Unrecognizable heaps of burnt.
Twisted metal.
They gazed in delight, while the Butcher exclaimed
“He was always a desperate wag!”
They beheld him—their Baker—their hero unnamed—
On the top of a neighbouring crag,
In Vynohradar.
Normally a sleepy neighbourhood.
Of Kyiv, you saw.
A scene of utter devastation.
High-rise apartment blocks.
With windows smashed.
Shells of burnt-out cars.
On the pavements.
Dust and smoke.
In the air.
Locals told you.
They had heard at least.
Three massive explosions.
Several of their neighbours.
Were taken to hospital.
With severe injuries.
Erect and sublime, for one moment of time,
In the next, that wild figure they saw
(As if stung by a spasm) plunge into a chasm,
While they waited and listened in awe.
She lives in.
A nine-storey apartment block.
Right next to the epicentre.
Of one of the explosions.
Tearfully, she told you.
That one of the cars.
Completely destroyed.
By the blast was hers.
But it is not just.
Her car or her house.
That she is worried about.
That she is worried about.
“They’ll fix the building.
But not our souls.
The whole of the building.
The whole of Ukraine is in grief.”
“What have we done?
To deserve this?”
“What have we done?
To deserve this?”
“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—”
The attack was followed.
By a massive effort.
To clean up the damage.
And help the survivors.
Outside her house.
Rescuers were making sure.
Everyone was.
Physically OK.
While government psychologists.
Were talking to.
Shell-shocked and.
Sometimes tearful locals.
And volunteers handing out.
Free food and drink.
Police were shooing.
Everyone away.
From the high-rises.
As shards of glass.
Were still falling out of.
Broken windows.
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.
Nearby, neighbourhood boys.
Joined municipal workers.
In clearing rubble from.
A children’s activity centre.
With painted purple butterflies.
Still visible on.
What is left of.
Its windows.
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.
But step away from.
The epicentre of the blast.
And a sense of normality.
Begins to return.
Around the corner.
From her house.
A couple of children.
Were playing.
On a swing, looking.
In disbelief at all.
The bustle.
In their neighbourhood.
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.
Even further away.
Road workers were laying.
New tarmac and.
Buses were running.
As if nothing.
Out of the ordinary.
Was happening.
Just a short distance away.
“For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light:
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!
But westward, look, the land is bright.”
This is Kyiv’s way.
Of dealing with the war:
No matter how hard.
It gets hit.
No matter how hard.
It gets hit.
The city still goes back.
To its daily routines.
*Because I read “’They’ll fix the building, but not our souls’: Sleepy Kyiv neighbourhood hit in Russian strike” by Vitaly Shevchenko on 2 Jun 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 Anna, led by “some lines” quoted in the last part of ‘CHAPTER XVIII YUGOSLAVIA AND GREECE’ of ‘BOOK II ALONE May 10, 1940–June 22, 1941’ in ‘The Second World War: The Classic One-Volume Abridgment’ written by Winston S. Churchill, and ‘The Hunting of the Snark’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
‘They’ll fix the building, but not our souls’: Sleepy Kyiv neighbourhood hit in Russian strike
