They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;
They pursued it with forks and hope;
They threatened its life with a railway-share;
They charmed it with smiles and soap.
One local resident.
Has given her personal account.
Of losing her loved ones.
Of losing her loved ones.
Both her parents.
Were killed.
In Oleshky.
This summer.
Then the Butcher contrived an ingenious plan
For making a separate sally;
And had fixed on a spot unfrequented by man,
A dismal and desolate valley.
She confirmed.
Their identities to you.
With their dates of birth.
And photos.
But asked not to.
Have them published.
For her own safety.
For her own safety.
“They were shot.
Inside their home.
‘Orcs’ soldiers came there.
And wanted to take it.”
But the very same plan to the Beaver occurred:
It had chosen the very same place:
Yet neither betrayed, by a sign or a word,
The disgust that appeared in his face.
Burying the bodies.
Of people killed.
In Oleshky.
Has been restricted.
By ‘orcs’ occupation authorities.
Residents say.
This has made counting.
The dead even harder.
Each thought he was thinking of nothing but “Snark”
And the glorious work of the day;
And each tried to pretend that he did not remark
That the other was going that way.
They “do not allow us.
To bury the dead.
If they were killed.
By a drone.”
“Stepped on a landmine.
Or were killed.
In any other way”.
In any other way”.
But the valley grew narrow and narrower still,
And the evening got darker and colder,
Till (merely from nervousness, not from good will)
They marched along shoulder to shoulder.
‘Orcs’ occupation authorities.
Demand those deaths.
Are confirmed by.
Post mortem examination.
Carried out by.
An ‘orc’ doctor.
That is not possible.
In Oleshky.
Then a scream, shrill and high, rent the shuddering sky,
And they knew that some danger was near:
The Beaver turned pale to the tip of its tail,
And even the Butcher felt queer.
Only those who die.
Of natural causes.
Could be buried.
She added.
And as a result.
“Some bodies have been.
On the streets.
Since December”.
He thought of his childhood, left far far behind—
That blissful and innocent state—
The sound so exactly recalled to his mind
A pencil that squeaks on a slate!
*Because I read “Eating garden weeds to survive in Russian-occupied city cut off from food and water” by Olga Malchevska on 24 Sep 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 Tetiana, led by ‘The Hunting of the Snark’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news, and on the BBC news Ukraine, of course:
Oleshky: Eating garden weeds to survive in Russian-occupied city cut off from food and water
Суп з бур’яну і собаки, які їдять тіла: що відбувається в окупованих Олешках – BBC News Україна
