There are ways to fight Putinās invasion of the free people of Ukraine. I use words, knowing each letter builds a metaphor to uplift the countless suffering of innocents, dictated by a megalomaniac.
Recently, I could not sleep. So, I wrote Black Wing Passing to stand up for humanity.
Black Wing Passing
by James Coburn
Block after block,
the shutter of little feet.
The silence of the dead;
who will speak?
Putinās propaganda war machine
closes in on breath,
a hospital, citizen soldiers,
and row-on-row of flickering lamps.
Thirsty, exhausted,
another night in Soviet-era tunnels
cold and damp, scant bits of bread.
A motherās despair, a campfire flame.
āIs anything the same?ā
Gone, gone, gone.
Voices sing the dream,
invisible in Putinās propaganda machine,
set to feed curious Russians, reasons
pointed upside down, a twisted and shivering
fallout on cake sliced apart
by one aging man
sitting at the edge of a table ā alone,
his back across the room, not to approach
as he impregnates fear, aborting lives,
pontificating.
āGive them crumbs.ā
Bombs away, no more play.
Parasitic words of a maggot devour reason.
Bodies pile horror in trenches.
Cover the dead.
Nearby, the blackbirds roost, fly away, away.
Haze penetrates the sky. Cities burn skin.
War is a massacre within the megalomaniacās eye.
Smile for your camera, KGB Officer Putin
in your slaughterhouse
of Stalin dreams/Hitler schemes.
You are their malice that won you over.
You surrendered.
Who will come at this desperate hour
to sing the soul of Ukraine?
Oh, rise above the square and rest
in the tunnels of Kyiv as we sing.
Brotherhood of resistance
shall not dance on puppet strings.
It is the song of freedom
rising not to fall again.
We shall spread our voice
We shall not be silent.
Mothers in Moscow will say,
āWhere is my son?ā
Dead in Putinās drum.
āWhere are we going?ā
the young Russian soldier said.
No answers for the dead.
Rain of fire overhead.
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