“’Tis the voice of the Jubjub!” he suddenly cried.
(This man, that they used to call “Dunce.”)
“As the Bellman would tell you,” he added with pride,
“I have uttered that sentiment once.
“’Tis the note of the Jubjub! Keep count, I entreat;
You will find I have told it you twice.
Tis the song of the Jubjub! The proof is complete,
If only I’ve stated it thrice.”
She has been counting.
The dead since.
She managed to.
Escape Oleshky.
In summer 2022.
– a few months after.
It was taken.
By the ‘orcs’ army.
The Beaver had counted with scrupulous care,
Attending to every word:
But it fairly lost heart, and outgrabe in despair,
When the third repetition occurred.
She is a volunteer.
Who is involved.
In attempts to deliver.
Food and medicine.
And facilitating evacuations.
To Oleshky.
Locals trust her with their.
Sensitive personal information.
It felt that, in spite of all possible pains,
It had somehow contrived to lose count,
And the only thing now was to rack its poor brains
By reckoning up the amount.
“I’ve been putting together.
A spreadsheet of all those.
Who died as soon as.
I find out about it.”
“With their names.
And dates of birth.
– I’ve got around.
1,200 people now.”
“Two added to one—if that could but be done,”
It said, “with one’s fingers and thumbs!”
Recollecting with tears how, in earlier years,
It had taken no pains with its sums.
“Sometimes I don’t have.
Time to update it.
As the list grows one or two.
People longer every day:”
“Someone was killed.
By a drone.
Someone else stepped.
On the landmine.”
“The thing can be done,” said the Butcher, “I think.
The thing must be done, I am sure.
The thing shall be done! Bring me paper and ink,
The best there is time to procure.”
Bodies are.
Bodies are.
“Either getting piled” up.
In the local hospital morgue.
“Where there’s been no power.
Since winter”.
Says the volunteer.
Or “stray dogs eat them”.
The Beaver brought paper, portfolio, pens,
And ink in unfailing supplies:
While strange creepy creatures came out of their dens,
And watched them with wondering eyes.
That detail.
Has been verified.
Based on numerous pictures.
Obtained from residents.
They are all.
Too graphic to publish.
They are all.
Too graphic to publish.
So engrossed was the Butcher, he heeded them not,
As he wrote with a pen in each hand,
And explained all the while in a popular style
Which the Beaver could well understand.
“This is a tool.
Of psychological pressure.”
Says the co-founder.
Of charity Humanity.
Which helps people.
In Oleshky and the wider.
‘Orcs’-occupied territories.
Of Ukraine.
“If you try to bury.
A dead body.
You’ll become.
The next one.”
“Taking Three as the subject to reason about—
A convenient number to state—
We add Seven, and Ten, and then multiply out
By One Thousand diminished by Eight.
“The result we proceed to divide, as you see,
By Nine Hundred and Ninety and Two:
Then subtract Seventeen, and the answer must be
Exactly and perfectly true.
*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 Ksenia, and a story of Ester, 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
