T’was in the Ukrainian spring of 2022 when the robins died.
Their bright blue eggs shattered, fledglings vaporized,
Their mud nests lined with grass and petals disintegrated
From apple orchards’ branches in home towns, farm fields,
Peaceful roads, cities with golden domes of faith and heritage,
Destroyed by hail of sky fires, hell’s smoke billowing from the evil
Old monster ogre wallowing in war’s muck and lie’s mire.
Dear red-breasted harbinger of spring, you must not die,
Do not still your cheery trills in early dawn and later evening,
Vocalize, from the pain and ashes, that hope rises, never dies,
Be the strength of hope to give courage for new tomorrows,
Be invincible with rebirth every spring and new beginnings.
Dear grey-feathered minstrel, let children smile again at your song
Nothing remains permanent; hope will sing again in clear skies.
Annemarie Berukoff
