One Day

I took off my helmet and washed my hair in vodka today. How I wish for a normal, soft hat. Someone called me and asked how I was. I felt only anger. Me? Me? Ask about Pasha who died throwing his bullet proof vest off to protect children with it. Ask the blind woman from Dnipro that I went to try to help get away, for a friend of mine in Poland. Blind. In terror. Tragedy comes in all forms. Children do not cry here. Children do not cry. I have not seen anything sadder than children that do not cry. Women, too, rarely, if ever cry. Only men cry. I cry. I have only one promise to make. I will never leave Ukraine. One day I will be able to wear my soft grey Alpine hat, and I will walk to the beautiful meadows high in the Carpathian mountains. One day we will meet there. One day. Until then, the only thing I know is there are different kinds of blind.

listen!
to the bees in the long grasses
 — not yet, not yet

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Written for dverse poetry.

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