Being Slavic is a living weight,
Concrete blocks where pigeons wait.
Streets cracked open, puddles wide,
A stray dog follows at your side.
Celler jars bubble, sour and sweet,
Pickled cabbage, fruit compote to eat.
Mushrooms hang from beams in dust,
Leaves for tea, old wood and rust.
Living rooms hold glass and plates,
Old lace curtains, fading fates.
The tables flowers wilt and lean,
Cold sausage waits beside the screen.
Gardens bulge with stubborn spuds,
Hands in dirt, backs bent in mud.
Summer heat makes soil your friend,
Each seed a prayer you plant to end.
Night comes crawling, streets are rough,
Drunks will call you, bluff by bluff.
Laughter spills like broken glass,
You hope your step is quick to pass.
Schools are prisons, walls bare white,
Tables scarred from years of fight.
Carpets rare, blackboards cracked,
Lessons whisper, spirits lacked.
Living Slavic is quiet, hard,
Smile a luxury, life a guard.
Talk with old women on the bus,
Hope your country will last for us.
Jan 19
Jan 19, 2026 at 1:23 PM UTC
Being Slavic is a living weight,
Concrete blocks where pigeons wait.
Streets cracked open, puddles wide,
A stray dog follows at your side.
Celler jars bubble, sour and sweet,
Pickled cabbage, fruit compote to eat.
Mushrooms hang from beams in dust,
Leaves for tea, old wood and rust.
Living rooms hold glass and plates,
Old lace curtains, fading fates.
The tables flowers wilt and lean,
Cold sausage waits beside the screen.
Gardens bulge with stubborn spuds,
Hands in dirt, backs bent in mud.
Summer heat makes soil your friend,
Each seed a prayer you plant to end.
Night comes crawling, streets are rough,
Drunks will call you, bluff by bluff.
Laughter spills like broken glass,
You hope your step is quick to pass.
Schools are prisons, walls bare white,
Tables scarred from years of fight.
Carpets rare, blackboards cracked,
Lessons whisper, spirits lacked.
Living Slavic is quiet, hard,
Smile a luxury, life a guard.
Talk with old women on the bus,
Hope your country will last for us.
Request permission to use this poem