A Night in Kyiv, poetry by Gerry Stefanson at Spillwords.com

A Night in Kyiv

A Night in Kyiv

written & performed by: Gerry Stefanson


Still, it is so cold, pushed into a crevice, awaiting
Still, he is so still, yet a coiled spring saving to explode
Still as quiet as a mouse that smells cat- but he is a werewolf.

The pursed voice of Baba explains why she gifts seed packets to foreign soldiers
never leaves his mind.
The sounds of sirens shatter, the whistle of rockets/bombs – cowards toys scream
never leaves his mind.
The steps of the never forgiven soldier just meters away/ the packets of seeds in his pockets itch to be spread, err planted in pockets of these havoc spreaders.

Father taught him to work, farm harvest plants bring life from the earth
Father showed him life, love the eternal hope for all
Father never thought his son would seed foreigners with Sunflowers when he terminated them in alleyways, abandoned homes where he would find them.

He still never comprehended he would be the harvester of men
He still never dreamed they would be fodder for Sunflowers
He still never imagined a foreign soldier would execute his father standing at his door as they drove by.

the farmer/the father/the Baba /all the soldiers know now the terrible price everyone pays.

Latest posts by Gerry Stefanson (see all)
Series Navigation<< A Morning in KyivAn Afternoon in Kyiv >>
This publication is part 3 of 4 in the series In Kyiv