Ukraine

Tonight, the pain of fighting obscures every star.
The moon is the color of blood gushing from the wounds of the dead.
The sky is a deep bruise covering life’s desolation.
Each trembling unfulfilled hope flutters and blindly gropes,
in lost and hopeless suffering.
The heart of the earth has stopped.

The joy in the song is no more.

There is only the dirge of disaster.

A miasma of mourning is the fog that lies over the hills,

a mist of the hearts that are broken hides the mountains.
The flowers bow their heads in the gloom, animals crouch in the fields.

Everyone’s heart is wanting.

Fallen stars course deeply through bewildered veins,

blocking expectations of clarity.

Murder spatters the night sky.