‘Hush! You’ll be
waking him,
I’m afraid,
if you make so much noise.’
‘Well, it’s no use your talking
about waking him,’
said Tweedledum,
‘when you’re only
one of the things
in his dream.
You know very well
you’re not real.’
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
Slovyansk is further back.
From the front.
25km away.
And faces a different drone threat.
Shahed drones have been.
Dubbed “flying mopeds”.
By ‘elves’.
Because of their puttering engines.
Here she checked herself
in some alarm,
at hearing something
that sounded to her
like the puffing of
a large steam-engine
in the wood near them,
though she feared
Swarms of them.
Attack Slovyansk often.
Swarms of them.
Attack Slovyansk often.
There is a change.
In the drone’s hum.
Before it dives.
And then explodes.
it was more likely
to be a wild beast.
‘Are there any lions or tigers
about here?’ she asked timidly.
‘It’s only the Red King
snoring,’ said Tweedledee.
‘Come and look at him!’
the brothers cried,
At night, she and he.
Hear them but still.
They won’t leave Slovyansk.
They won’t leave Slovyansk.
They have poured blood.
And sweat into this land.
– and at their son’s graveside.
Tears too.
and they took each one of
Alice’s hands,
and led her up to where
the King was sleeping.
‘Isn’t he a lovely sight?’
said Tweedledum.
Alice couldn’t say
honestly that he was.
Son was 29.
A lieutenant.
In the army.
Killed by a cluster bomb.
Near Svatove.
In November 2022.
He and his father.
He and his father.
First fought together.
In 2015.
Against the ‘orcs’.
In Donbas.
He had a tall
red night-cap on,
with a tassel, and
he was lying crumpled up
into a sort of untidy heap,
and snoring loud
– ‘fit to snore his head off!’
as Tweedledum remarked.
They worked side by side.
As sappers.
Son’s trident-shaped grave.
Sits on a hillside.
Overlooking Slovyansk.
His portrait and.
A map of Ukraine.
On the polished black stone.
‘I’m afraid he’ll catch cold
with lying on the damp grass,’
said Alice, who was
a very thoughtful little girl.
‘He’s dreaming now,’
said Tweedledee:
‘and what do you think
he’s dreaming about?’
Mother, 53.
Visits often.
On the afternoon.
You meet her.
‘Orcs’ artillery is landing.
On a nearby hillside.
But she pays.
Little attention.
As she fusses.
Around the grave.
And whispers sweet nothings.
To her dead son.
Alice said, ‘Nobody
can guess that.’
‘Why, about you!’
Tweedledee exclaimed,
clapping his hands triumphantly.
‘And if he left off
dreaming about you,
where do you suppose you’d be?’
“How can you lose the place?
Where you were born?
Where you grew up?
Where your child grew up?”
“Where he found his final rest?”
She tells you through tears.
“And then to live your whole life.
With the feeling that.”
“You will never again.
Visit this place.
– I cannot even imagine.
That right now.”
‘Where I am now,
of course,’ said Alice.
‘Not you!’ Tweedledee
retorted contemptuously.
‘You’d be nowhere.
Why, you’re only
a sort of thing
in his dream!’
But her husband.
55, admits.
They will have to leave.
When the fighting comes closer.
“I won’t stay here.
The ‘orcs’ would put a target.
On me straight away.”
He says.
‘If that there King was to wake,’
added Tweedledum,
‘you’d go out – bang! –
just like a candle!’
‘I shouldn’t!’
Alice exclaimed indignantly.
‘Besides, if I’m only
a sort of thing
Until then.
They will stay.
Under the nightly terror.
Of drones.
So that they can remain.
So that they can remain.
Close to their son’s.
Final resting place.
in his dream,
what are you,
I should like to know?’
‘Ditto,’ said Tweedledum.
‘Ditto, ditto!’ cried Tweedledee.
He shouted this
so loud that Alice
couldn’t help saying,
“How can you lose the place?
Where you were born?
Where you grew up?
Where your child grew up?”
“Where he found his final rest?”
She tells you through tears.
“And then to live your whole life.
With the feeling that.”
“You will never again.
Visit this place.
– I cannot even imagine.
That right now.”
‘Hush! You’ll be
waking him,
I’m afraid,
if you make so much noise.’
‘Well, it’s no use your talking
about waking him,’
said Tweedledum,
‘when you’re only
one of the things
in his dream.
You know very well
you’re not real.’
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
‘I am real!’ said Alice,
and began to cry.
*Because I read “As Russian army inches closer, Ukrainians must decide to stay or go” by Quentin Sommerville on 13 Sep 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, as a story of Nadiia, Oleh and Serhii, led by ‘THROUGH the LOOKING-GLASS’ written by Lewis Carroll, you know.
Please read the original story on the BBC news:
As Russian forces advance, Ukrainians in Donbas must choose to stay or go
