No doubt, prose and verses will be written about events in Ukraine. Some of them will be translated to English (especially those, that fall in line with the Western media's viewpoint). Quite possibly, you'll come across those works. But, while reading them, remember - Donetsk and Luhansk were there first, by many years.
Vladislav Rusanov is a fantasy writer, a candidate of technical sciences. He is also known for translations of fantasy and romantic poetry into Russian. Formerly a Ukrainian citizen, he now identifies with the Donetsk People's Republic. When the DPR proclaimed itself as an independent state from Ukraine, he expressed support of the breakaway republic, and became one of the founders of the Donetsk People's Republic Writers' Union. Vladislav lives in Donetsk
*****
I want to wake up with you, my nose against your nape;
The wind - a sad prankster - howls in stovepipe's bends.
My green-eyed wonder. The aroma of cinnamon and coffee;
I'd love to be born next to you, one misty morning.
Crossed swords over the fireplace, coals tinged with ashes;
Bread with cumin and chilliness, white candles all gone out.
What if I skip work today? Let the blizzard hide the paths.
Your voice is hoarse from cold again, I'll be as shy as a lad.
I will be utterly truthful, I don't play painful sports;
I'll be singing you of a world that has forgotten wars.
Where unicorns roam about, where winds sway the silky grasslands;
Where elders are wise and solemn, and rivers flow onwards grandly.
Where, without fear, does and deers come to the village edges;
Where my lips are unskilled, where parting is out of the question.
Where foes don't look for a duel, where there's no hatred at all;
Nor is there grief or sadness, and the swords hang crossed on the wall.
Where time is measured in stitches, where spirits haunt forests dim;
Where guards cannot be bought, and a publican's without sin.
Where I limp ahead to meet you, over the heady-dewed blossoms;
Swaying from love and blissful, hugging your tender shoulders...
But the wind keeps on howling around the rusty stovepipe's twists:
"All lies. Don't believe him... Listen, such lands don't exist!"
Here, knights have been slain by a swamp-hag; minstrels are sputtering blood;
A princess is dying slowly, to the tune of snowswept chords.
But, delaying the clock hands, so ostentatiously merry;
Foolishly; aimlessly; vainly, I'll tell you lies forever.
(2015)
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