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The price of my freedom

The feelings of a Ukrainian, living in the US

By Salomé SaffiriPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 1 min read

My freedom is bitter, like Mugwort

That covers Carpathian mountains.

The mountains, that shelter my brother

From bombings and bullets

Carpathian mountains, the only place I have ever felt truly free

My freedom is painful, like loss

Of a friend.

She sent me her picture and said

To remember her smiling

My friend has asked me to remember her "this way"

My freedom is anxious, like the still of the night

Right before sirens cut it.

The stomp of one million feet,

Running to shelter, trampling silence

Kyiv 2022, living quarter bombed at night

My freedom is hopeful-

A drawing: the Sun on the wall in a bunker.

A mother breastfeeding her newborn

In hopes for tomorrow.

A bomb shelter in Mariupol 2022

My freedom is wide-eyed, like parentless children

Who run to the bus that can take them to shelter

One’s hiding a rock in his pocket-

Remainder, reminder of home that he had

The evacuation of the orphanage

My freedom is fierce, like a Molotov cocktail

It burns me and blisters with hunger for action

My women have taken up arms

My men are reporting success from the field

Ukrainian women fighting alongside men

My freedom is safe, like a dream of a madman:

My old home has been ravaged,

My new home is safe.

Where do I belong anymore?

I am a Ukrainian. I am an American citizen. I feel torn between where my home is and where I belong at the time of the war

My freedom was given to me like a gift.

Before torn, bleeding flesh of my country

Could clot like a wound

and consume me within

sad poetry

About the Creator

Salomé Saffiri

Writing - is my purpose. I feel elated when my thoughts assume shapes, and turn into Timberwolves, running through the snowbound planes of fresh paper, leaving the black ink of their paw prints behind.

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    Salomé SaffiriWritten by Salomé Saffiri

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