A spirit haunts the skies,
yet the city's never felt more alive.
Bullets echo through the night,
hunting prey just as a falcon in flight.
The skyline burns but no widows weep,
they take up arms to sow what's been reaped.
They scream,
"Let freedom rise from the invasion,
let sunflowers grow where their bodies have fallen!
We have not yet perished;
Glory to Ukraine!"
Ghosts walk with him through Kyiv,
a thousand footsteps made two in the street.
Bombs drop into the concrete,
making ringing ears an endless heartbeat.
When the world waits for him to flee,
he says,
"We will be our own salvation.
I need ammunition,
not an escape route."
Phantoms saw the world once turn away,
but he refused to allow this time be the same.
"We bleed as you watch silently.
I beg you all, help us fight our victory."
Finally, the world starts to care.
They see
the blood, the loss, the flames, the scars.
When will they see the light?
This is a genocide.
A spirit haunts the skies,
a protector in the dark of the fight.
Steel cracked like crystal in the fire,
left blackened and marred by the occupiers.
The heroes fall and the world weeps,
Let them fear us, for vengeance is what we seek.
We scream,
"Let them pay for their sins on the battlefield,
let sunflowers grow where they tried to force us to yield!
We have not yet perished;
Glory to Ukraine!"
YOU ARE READING
enigma
Poetrypoems that attempt to provide an insight into the enigma that is my mind as I splinter myself between realities, trying to make sense of the world around me -- I write of all my feelings, all my thoughts. Everything I experience and suffer, everythi...
