Mykyta Ryzhykh

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It was me

The river does not talk to the stone. I am silent together with the stone about the shadows and how their bodies, burdened with sound and smell, are reflected in these shadows. The stone does not argue, the stone does not understand, the stone will endure everything like a candle until the last trembling fiery drop. The shadows of birds cannot be confused with the shadows of buildings or animals. The shadows of people can be confused with anything from emptiness to a statue. The dead and newborns are also statues and their form (before and after) is unchanged. The stone wall of the house turns into ruins and bricks and stones again find humility. Moss will tell everything about a tear because all the tears of the world are just one drop in a stone sea screaming into silence. Shadows and roots drown in water (or in the shadow?) with cut-off hands. Monkeys sit on branches. Monkeys fall into cages. Monkeys don't call their home a prison. People drown with their bodies cut off. People drown in themselves. They drown in their own crowd. And the river regains its shore. Dawn of dew. On the embankment, the dew has blossomed. God drowned us with the blood of the killed and wounded. God sharpened the knife. At night, a stranger stuck the knife into my back. Above the head of the stone sky, distant stars burn. And above my stone head drowned in the sky, the cosmos burns. I set it all on fire.

Mykyta Ryzhykh is from Ukraine, now living in Tromsø, Norway. Nominated for Pushcart Prize and Touchstone prize. Published many times in literary magazines іn Ukrainian and English: Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, andNeologism Poetry Journal. His book Tombboy will be published in 2026 by Lost telegram press.