What meat are we made of?
Who among us is a peasant
and who is a descendant of nobles,
never mind, at five in the morning
a sleepy burgher runs to take a working place.

What kind of dough are we made of?
You ask yourself
adults play genealogy,
and the grandfather’s confession
leads the children into history.

Who are we? Where are the insults?
Overgrown hair spins in the ears,
forehead wrinkles, sweaty forehead,
black and white photo of ancestors on the mirror.
Once was a clay house.

The enemy’s program is known to all intelligence services

The enemy’s program is known to all intelligence services
oppress Ukrainians to years of three,
would send them to hell,
the chauvinist nation is headed there,
murderers can’t find a nation in a continuous storm.

The world forgives of disgusting bugs
blood, pain and glass, continuous destruction,
goods are sailing to the land of evil,
and the Russian viewer is proud as Mr.

Beating civilians is like the mission of the occupier
loot and take the last one by force,
Rashists do not know that it is possible to live,
to care, desire, work and love.

The day is going somewhere noticeably

The day flies somewhere, noticeably,
cool evenings refresh the body,
the final weeks of August will be selected
we have another military summer,
autumn is peeking into cities and villages.

Sometimes the fog plays in the mornings,
and he joyfully greets the tiny rains,
and the lan is empty,
harvest relics replenish the barn.

And as if you breathe every day,
and as if you hear, see and chew,
youth meanwhile is in a hurry.
Unfortunately, you will not catch up to her.

………………………………………..

All poems © Vyacheslav Konoval

Poetry