Were the wings of Hope fluttering in the gardens of Kyiv?
No, their hopes were snatched away by madmen in power
Were the souls of Ukrainians blind with bloodlust?
No, killing was a necessity, a ritual to cleanse one's soul
Were their nights plagued by dreams?
Dreams of loss and fragility like a broken mirror reflecting Conscience's light
If Nature could speak to them, which flower would it give them?
Hyacinthus made from the innocent blood of civilians
What were the hearts of stone like?
Filled with shards of shadow which ache at every turn
If anything could break the cycle of pain what would?
Their soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem