Beasts invaded our city, cruel and obstinate.

They don’t spare people. None of them!

I am a bit scared, as they want me to die, too.

But I don’t understand what they get out of it.

I am eight. Almost. I study — or, rather, studied — in school.

We don’t have a home anymore, so my parents and I live

in the basement. Sometimes, I cry

when no one is looking. But don’t tell anyone about it!

Dad is out there. Mama keeps much silence about him.

I understand her, but I am not afraid:

Dad said he’d come back alive and victorious.

And Dad never lies to me. Never!

Uncle Vitia, an older neighbor of ours, has survived!

He says he’s happy because he can go down to the yard.

He made a bonfire outside so people could cook.

He used wooden stairs as the firewood.

The stairs came from an old shed — it was destroyed, anyway.

The playground lies in ruins, too — they must’ve been shooting blind.

There are graves now in our yard instead of flower beds.

I haven’t seen them but I heard grown-ups talking about it.

We no longer read books — there’s no light.

I go to bed earlier, shutting my eyes tight.

I make a wish: for the spring to bloom faster,

and for the cannons to fall silent. I want to go home, too.

My bike and railroad remained there. A teddy-bear, too,

but I no longer played with him — I’m too old for that.

He was sitting on the shelf, looking down at us.

I miss him because it was a gift from Dad.

There are many of us in the basement, like a big family.

We play hide-and-seek and recite poems at bedtime.

Only Andriyko’s grandma from a neighboring house cries,

and Andriyko no longer comes down to the basement, for some reason.

Author: Oksana Stomina, Ukrainian poet, writer

Translator: Hanna Leliv

Illustrator: Victoria Boyko

Content Editor: Maryna Korchaka

Program Directors: Julia Ovcharenko and Demyan Om Dyakiv Slavitski