Amongst the fields of sunflowers,
dreaming in the winds of change,
butterflies roam, partaking of the nectar.
Sweet dreams interrupted by a shift
in the pleasant breezes,
accompanied by dark clouds.
Nectar runs dry, and petals wilt,
as the resting places
of the fragile two-winged creatures,
disappear from the fields.
How many Ukrainian refugees,
who have taken flight,
from the devastation,
will be blessed with a new beginning,
in faraway places, where safety resides,
miles away from their homes?
My ancestors, with prescient insight,
migrated across the Atlantic Ocean,
before the flames of the Shoah
engulfed Bolechov, and took the lives
of those who remained in the shtetl.
Ghosts of the past cry out,
Release me, into the wind,
so that our memories
will not be forgotten.