We hie to meet on the crest
Of that far off north hill
Beyond the befogged dale
And hope to remember still
Old promises to share
And dreams to keep
Deep into a dark cold night—
Wherever lost is our chance to sleep.
Where has our 7-throned dragon flown?
Can the slaughter of Irpul be forgiven?
Where has conscience and care and mercy
And plain humanity been off driven?
But find me in the womb of the dale,
Mountain tops are for lords and masters;
My path leads to despair and slogged trial
Cleaning up after others’ so well-planned disasters.
The commander points us towards Kyiv—
The butcher bill is yet but half-paid.
The game goes on, we put in our ante,
All the corpses sweetly in tight alignment laid.
Moscow rest on a fresh sea bottom;
Would the Kremlin be chasing after
And I can return home to clean off
The cobwebs that enshroud the bare rafter?
Hah, how the yankees stand supporting Ukraini
Hiding behind those NATO euro-skirts!
But tis time to stand and march for hilltops,
No matter if back, soul, and eye hurts.
One day I hope to walk past that far crest…
Commander says Attack! I guess it’s for the best.
The fog rolled in
And left me insufficiently clear
The reason for the day
Was made overwhelmingly dear
13 crashed the truck
9 angels departed Midland
The Vladomyrrs remain stuck
With Ares flames fully fanned
Then the sun rearose
Warming our sad refrain
Hope akindles slowly
For our brothers in Ukraine
The fog rolled out
And we’re left with tears anyway
We wish you brighter hopes
On this too-dark St Patrick’s Day
Wait for the fireflies to wing you evensong cheer
Pray that soon all brothers can live in the clear