A bird flies home,
because it feels like a need
without feeling tired,
across the open sky.
And on earth hopes
get mixed with curses.
The bird flies over Kiev,
it flies over Kherson.
A lark, a stork,
an oriole, a linnet.
A bird flying from afar
does not expect treachery.
And on earth down there –
reactive volleys and threads of tracers.
The bird flies over Rivno,
flies over Cherkasy.
Where it is going to land
in that vortex– God knows.
Souls circulate in a vortex,
birds fly home.