Ukraine continues to bloom

Foreword

Not much for me to say here; my last poem should be clear in my worldview. Ukraine has become a symbol of liberty, of freedom, of strength, of courage, but most of all, of democracy. Its fight against the autocracy of Russia, amidst the rise of tyranny in the United States, is inspiring and makes me proud not just to be European (like every Ukrainian), but also to be the son of a Ukrainian dad, holding his family name.

The Ukrainian lyrics in the attached music video were translated by my brother Ilya.

Poem: Ukraine continues to bloom [Free-verse ode]

Sunflowers don’t ask for war —
they spear through tank treads,
golden necks tilted toward the same sun
that watched Cossacks gallop
across steppes salted with freedom.
Kyiv’s chestnut trees bloom shrapnel-white,
their roots cradling bones and bullets,
still whispering “volya” to the wind
like a lullaby.

Grandmas stir borsch in basements —
beets bleeding brighter than propaganda,
dill confetti defiant in the broth.
They bake pampushky under candlelight,
dough swelling like lungs
after a scream.
“Taste this,” they say,
offering bread anointed with honey and ash —
a sacrament of “we’re still here.”

In Kharkiv’s rubble, a girl paints
Petrykivka swirls on mortar shells —
folk flowers swallowing metal teeth.
Odesa’s poets carve sonnets into birch bark,
hurling them into the Black Sea
where currents carry verses to shores
that forgot how to listen.
Even the Dnipro River writes hymns,
its waves etching “Slava”
into the banks like a promise.

The Carpathians stand sentinel,
pines bristling like the moustaches
of long-dead haidamaky rebels.
In Lviv’s cobblestone veins,
ghosts of students shot in ’41
now dance with teens who chant
“Smert voroham!” under February stars.
History here isn’t archived —
it’s a blade passed hand to hand,
still sharp.

They tried to subtract your tongue,
divide your wheat fields,
multiply your graves.
But Chernihiv’s dawns arrive anyway —
pink as a child’s watercolor,
ignoring checkpoints.
In Kherson’s liberated orchards,
apricot buds fist-bump the sky,
each fruit a grenade of sweetness
waiting to burst.

You are the equation
occupation can’t solve:
How light climbs from cellars.
How bread rises beneath bombs.
How a people outlives
every empire’s expiration date.