Quietly in the forest
submissively being smallest
pines stand.
The snow covers land,
it hides pines from evil,
and cools down fever.

Everything in the forest is numb,
waiting for the sun.
When will spring come?
The trees propped up heavy sky,
but cold winter will cry
with melted snow ...
... and then die.

Birds don't sing
waiting for spring
and the wind died down.
But spring is coming
helping the wind to blow out
this snow.

This ice will melt and then flow,
the ground will soak up all blood.
The nature renews
and young grass will grow though mud.

And storms then will shake
mercilessly these trees
and all bad just with ease.

Then flowers will bloom
letting world come alive,
and mentions of gloom all will dry
letting nature to thrive.

--
(Ukrainian)

Спокійно у лісі
Покірно під снігом
Сосни стоять.
Той сніг як завіса
Сховає від зла,
Нехай собі сплять.

Все в лісі завмерло,
Чекає на сонце,
Весни ще нема.
Дерева підперли
Небо важке,
Холодна зима.

Птахи не співають,
Чекають весни
І вітер притих.
Весна наступає
Ще вітер роздує
Цей сніг.

Розтане цей лід
Кров в землю піде
Як вода
Оновиться світ
Трава наросте
Молода.

І бурі прийдуть
Розструсять нещадно
Цей ліс
Погане зметуть
Дощем все освятять
Наскрізь.

Квітки зацвітуть
І все оживе,
Це краса.
Тихенько підуть
Всі згадки зими
В небеса.

the path lays trodden;
a milestone, leads to nowhere;
somewhere down, a leaf floats -
mid-air - to the whims of the cold breeze,
afraid to touch the bitter ground.
the soldiers are afoot;
marching to the sound
of static, broadcast by their
unreliable leaders.
the innocent seek asylum -
flee from states of unrest;
the power seems absolute -
hardly dynamic;
pistols aim for the heads;  
warheads aim for the heads -
of nations - all trying to outperform  
each others’ retribution;
panzers guard the rogue bases,
like hellhounds, starved of souls.
mothers kiss their babes, ‘--night’,
then wipe their hapless tears;  
fathers beg for their sons’ lives,
and their daughters’ honour;
God exists only in afterthoughts;
ceremonies shroud in silence;
children become too self-aware
for their undemanding ages;
schools shut their gates -
push them further into the nightmare;
tell them they don’t belong;

one of them’s had enough…
pushes back.

There was blood on my hands
but it wasn't mine
even if I wish that were the case for that moment
I couldn't risk it
the choice was to **** or be killed
my palms were oozing with the color red
my adrenaline was racing in loops
the man that I killed was considered my enemy
but in the eyes of my enemies on the other side
he was known as man with a purpose
a dream that he wanted to fulfill
he wanted to become a singer
to be the main lead in his church choir
singing chants of the holy name till dawn
but ever since the war
he had to put his dream on hold
now he had to sing for a new revolution

With the sound of the trigger
I caused his dream to be silenced forever
but it's not like I wanted to do that
It was either me or him
I drop my gun onto the ground and run towards him
his body was cold like ice
but his eyes were still shimmering
his head was looking straight at the heavens
I cradle his head gentle
whispering my sincere apologies in his ear
my comrades reach to where I am
asking me if I was okay numerous of times
but I was too ashamed to speak
I bury my head onto his chest
hoping that I can find a heartbeat
but it was too late to check
he is now singing with the angels

After the war has finally passed
I walk across death beds of the fallen
I put flowers on each of their graves
until I reached to his
I put my hand on his tombstone
my hands are now forever dry
but the memory still aches between my fingertips

I'm nostalgic for those old wars;
The coloured Roses kind,
With heroes and villains named Henry or Joe.
Wars that inspired poems about fields and bunkers.
And songs. So many catchy lilts with
Tipperary, white cliffs and battleships.
And slogans that made children want to fight
Against Loose Lips and encrypted blips on collateral damages.
I could be persuaaded to enlist,
To serve along side guys like the Duke,
And ****... and **** Tojos and Huns,
While singing and dancing.
And the community. How all chipped in with the Effort.
Congealing around ***** of yarn or tinfoil...  and victory gardens!
We'd be three deep on the boulevard, handing flowers to marching children on Main St.,
And the pulpits and towers exalt our efforts:
God is with us.
Shangdi yu women tong zai.
Dieu est avec nous.
Gott ist mit uns.
Bag s nami.
Dio e con noi.

Nobody has penned a memorable song
About Nagasaki;
We've seen some brain numbing,
Award winning pics
About Hiroshima.

We won't meet again.
I don't know when,
But how is definite.
A few big boys,
And...
Phsssszzzzzt!
How does that song go?

it hurts in the heart
when heroes are have-nots
after giving their all,
what’s left that they’ve got?
how many more vets will fill their cupboards with clocks?
how many more lives will pay the exorbitant cost
since health ain’t free or sold at loss,
it seems it was long lost
in that place where the war was.

now we find folks forgot
how foes brought fights fought,
take for granted what they’ve got,
giving big deeds little thought
when honor is selfishly half-sought,

selfless?
it is not.

we’ve seen what that’s wrought;
far from the peace we sought
a figurative hell but its cold, not hot
it ain’t literal, but still its critical
and truly despicable,
to treat lifesavers worse than criminals.

Some things are learned,
but never taught
so now and then,
spare searching thoughts.
you think its work; but it’s really not.
So take advantage, ‘fore chance is gone.
hit your limit, and go beyond;
you’re never short, going long.
you have the right to prove doubt wrong.
we came from one; so every one belongs
the poor, the rich, the old, the young.

you cannot lead those you leave behind.
there’s a detriment to that design;
a colour outside of lines.
where mindless fools make fools lose minds
and in a sad state; they've sacrifice saints.
estranged, to a stranger they pray.
solemnly, some will say:

‘we’ve simply gone astray,
somewhere along the way’

but when wiser ways breed better days,
it’ll be known without seeing or saying it.
the truth will grow without need for feeding it.
felt in your bones and you’ll even be bleeding it;
it won’t be a boast to believe in it.

these simple self-reflections
spot ego-built deceptions.
as intermittent intellectual intervention
pares prideful, porous perception;
rescinding regression, it’s purely progressive.
and in immaculate conception,
loose leaved lines’ll lay
layered with lessons;
words weaved tired, but tested;
learned, not suggested.
wisdom writ better
than the best of them.
not rested,
’til the rest of them
appreciate what was given in
by heroes that have come and gone,
how hard done heroes have been honored wrong;
they were our foundation all along.

you see, it’s soldiers’ shoulders we stand upon

how eerie it is to watch the unfathomable happen
right before our eyes, burning through
our privilege, destroying our make believe borders of protection.
neatly trimmed bushes, newly painted streets
yet there it is, the pandemonium of
the violence, the fear
scrolling through feeds to see lives taken
by the tip of a fuel raged knife
or by the impact of a charged bullet.
what was once seen on our tv,
now happening two blocks down
how unraveling to see that
our backyards are burning.