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Taras Melnychuk
4
a blue-eyed hay mower
after finishing his mowing
sits
on a river bank
and chats
with ears of grain
not far away
a plow smiles
to another plow
and the ancestor of the motorcycle –
a windmill –
plows the sky with its wing
gasping for breath
here
a poplar tree flees
a band of soldiers once again
has stained the dew with blood