First day of war.
Rockets, not birds, whizzed by the window in the morning.
She jumped up in jolly pajamas,
barefoot across the cold floor as across the blue skies,
barefoot across the skies, what is this red flying by the window?
What is this terrible there? With such a satanic whiz
it flies over our heads toward a morning of peace.
Why does transparent glass tremble so, why does transparent soul,
why does it tremble?
So the war came, with no invitation.
No one prepared beds, no one covered the table
with snow-white tablecloth—later, how
to wash the drops of blood from the white
linen cloth?—“So this is a war?” she asked at the closed door,
barefoot in jolly pajamas, what a guest,
uninvited, terrible, I won’t open, I won’t offer it anything, I won’t wear
a pretty dress. “Do not open,” the door boomed.
“Do not offer it anything. Do not wear a pretty dress.
If it starts breaking in, hit it—hit it—with an axe.”

(Translated, from the Russian, by Valzhyna Mort.)