The breast-plated pale iron horses gallop undeterred
with pounding sound stomping the ground, rumbling
reverberating all around. Hell and death
on the prowl, coughing up bloodthirsty rounds. The
hammer and sickle ripped the cities making prisons,
deathtraps. Lives cut short, severed bodies, dismembered
limbs, spilled blood, a slaughterhouse. It clears away the
living & brings death to all. Life has become barely living
and to live is to cope with the onslaught. The innocent
languish and die. Their bread has turned stale, water into
diesel, and all feel the pangs of hunger. Darkness wanders
the devastated country, the icy earth has blackened with the
settling soot. All have turned black. Their dead are piled-up
in massive graves. The dying embers of crumbled buildings
where many lived are heaps of mangled skeletons, a mass
of piled trash. The people walk the tattered cities, desolate,
with their rags putrefied, on a death march. The road is hard,
muddy, manless, treeless, lifeless—Silence can be heard.
The wind-wisped smoke & the darkened clouds a sunless dome.
Not looking back, they trudge on to seek refuge in a foreign land,
with pain leaving Ukraine.