In the chill rain of early spring,
bones rot in the streets.
The losses are always personal.
But the people,
rise through the clatter.
A landscape of ancestral hope.
They will not vanish
into the burnt soil.
But scoop the earth,
and cry ‘Slava Ukraini!’
And the lights rise,
building on building.
A glory of yellow and blue,
for all the world to see.
A Wandering Poet 