Sources of Death: The Wind, The Sea, The Sky

“I have a dream. I have a need. I need to protect our skies.” Volodymyr Oleksandrovych Zelenskyy. March 16, 2022.

Hector cursed the wind,

that flimsy floosy, for bringing the Greeks to his shore.

He wore his armer - pure bronze -

to keep him safe from her betraying whisper.

How was he to know a father

was swayed to sacrifice his own bloodline

for the promise of making mythical warriors.

The poet fought with logic,

chained together words of disbelief

that the Kyrenia sea brought the Turks to his shore.

His words made heads hang low,

as they pieced together grief’s motif.

Half a century later and the sea still reflects red

like blood, sprayed on the palm of a mountain.

The president who once cracked jokes

now stands at the stoppage of time,

persecutes the sky for springing on his people so much death.

He treads with humility over greed’s crime,

he sets one foot down and the dust of freedom rises,

he looks up, looks at death straight in the eye

while weaving a blanket to cover the violated sky.

My son looks to the moon

and with rage in his voice

and rage in his small chest he curses it,

his mouth spits out fuel

and his mind lights the match.

Why do such big countries sound war’s call

when the countries they want are so small?