Between Two Skies Poem by Natasa To

The sky does not choose a language

for the smoke it carries.

It drifts the same

over broken wheat fields

and shattered apartment walls,

over mothers whispering names

into sirens.



In the east, dawn comes quietly—

too quietly—

as if afraid to touch the earth.

Bootprints fill with rain.

A child's red mitten lies in snow

that does not understand borders.



Cities once loud with trams and laughter

now speak in echoes.

Windows blink out, one by one,

like tired stars.

Yet somewhere underground

a candle insists on burning,

its small flame stubborn

as memory.



Letters travel farther than missiles.

Folded into pockets,

sent across checkpoints,

carried in the breath between

"I'm still here"

and "I love you."



The river keeps moving west to east,

east to west,

unconcerned with flags.

It remembers other centuries,

other empires turned to dust,

and how grass returned

patiently,

after the thunder.



Night falls on both sides alike.

Fathers count the seconds.

Mothers count the heartbeats.

The moon hangs—

a pale coin over a silent marketplace—

unspent.



And still, beneath the rubble,

beneath the cold machinery of anger,

seeds wait.

Not for victory.

Not for revenge.

But for spring.