Born in Belarus, I come from a nation where people bravely stood up for their freedom. It breaks my heart to look further east and see Russia, a country where dissent is silenced, a country whose people stand by as they extinguish the freedom of a nation that echoes the bravery of my own Belarus.
Now living in Poland, I watch Belarus with enduring hope, knowing the embers of freedom still flicker. But I gaze at Ukraine with unyielding pride – theirs is a beacon of liberty shining brightly for the world to see. As for Russia, perhaps one day that fire will ignite within them. It’s a faint hope, but a hope nonetheless.
Ironically, despite Russians often referring to our three countries – Belarus, Ukraine, and Russia – as having a shared origin in the Rus’, they made the grave error of labeling us White Rus’ (Belarus), Little Rus’ (Ukraine), and Great Rus’ (Russia). The truth is, Ukraine far surpasses Russia in greatness, in every way except territory. Russia has yet to demonstrate the values of a true society: its foundation is tragically flawed.
Freedom is the cornerstone of a just society, a right we should all aspire to. It’s a tragedy that Russia has never shown a true desire for it. They have never learned, nor even begun to learn…
My poem:
The old folks sit in comfy chairs,
they talk of prices and thinning hairs.
They frown and say, “It’s how things go,
the world just works the way we know.”
But out the window, kids take flight,
marching banners, shining bright.
“We want change!” Their voices cry,
“A better world beneath the sky!”
The old folks scoff, with wrinkled nose,
“Those silly youngsters, goodness knows,
the world’s too big, it can’t be changed,
best keep things quiet, all arranged.”
But kids won’t hush, they know it’s wrong,
when things aren’t fair, they sing their song.
Their eyes hold fire, their hearts so bold,
they won’t accept what they’ve been told.
The old keep sighing, sipping tea,
“Things were different, can’t you see?
We’ve learned our place with quiet grace,
these kids will too, just give them space.”
But oh those kids, they won’t give in,
they fight like storms, with a mighty din.
They see injustice, a world turned wrong,
and freedom’s flame burns ever strong.
The old folks grumble, roll their eyes,
“The fight is lost,” they sadly sigh.
But kids won’t heed their tired words,
their voices rise like soaring birds.
Maybe the old have seen their day,
maybe they’ve lost their fighting way.
But in the young, the fire burns,
a hopeful future, the whole world learns.
So let them march and make a sound,
these kids will shake the very ground.
And maybe change, with all its might,
comes on the wings of youthful light.
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