INSTEAD OF SONNETS OR OCTAVES
by Pavlo Tychyna, 1920
You Tell Me
A short drizzle -- and the pavements are spotted with typhus...
A young novelist: -- "I don't want to, I can't write! The city is so oppressive,
life unnerves me."
I say nothing. Somewhere nearby a bomb...
"If only I could get away, you know, to the village. Swim, walk in the dew."
"Smash the saboteur!" -- I read on a poster.
And behind us old beggar women
stretch out their hands.
Grass grows, wherever it wants. The wind hurls the army mobilization
orders into the mud. The child cries -- "Milk!" but there's not even
in the hearth.
You tell me: what is counterrevolution?