Ukraine

Soil of sorrow. Mother of fire. Cradle of storms. Ukraine. Blood in the

furrows, tears in the grain. Your rivers run red

with a century's pain. A mother in mourning carved into the

land. A nation in shackles with trembling hands. Ash from the

past still burns in your skies. Empires devour your children alive.

Roots of the orchard crack under chains. Lightning remembers your thousands slain.

You rise even as demons consume you. You breathe, though the world

would entomb you. You scream through the graves. Your heart beats