On the banks of the Prypiat a devil is sleeping

 On the banks of the Prypiat a devil is sleeping,

Pretending, the scoundrel, he’s a dried up willow.
On the banks of the Prypiat—the bank of—on
the river, that once was deep blue.
An atomic black candle is flickering for him.
For him villages in poverty and decline.
On the riverbank sands his hooked claws sink in
In his ears the wind whistles and whines.
His obscenities scrawled on the windows and walls,
Cracked icons and a wrecked respirator.
And now he feels that he’s due a good doze.
This his empire. And he is the emperor.
The reactor, all black—his hell and his throne.
In the sands he sleeps, curled up in flame.
In his circle of ravens he dreams all alone
of Ukraine, of the whole of Ukraine.