Tag: Ukrainian refugees

Let Faith Reign

And there’s a slow, slow train comin’ up around the bend.

Slow Train, by Bob Dylan

When society is upended,

and people are tormented,

take heart in your faith,

don’t let your soul go to waste;

there will be a slow train

coming around the bend.

Let faith reign in your heart,

don’t pretend to play the part,

when the mind is sincere,

and the pathway is clear,

there will be a slow train

on the tracks ready to start.

Let’s dare not be hesitant,

when opportunity prevails, take that first step,

look, the passenger door is open,

these tired souls that appear to be broken,

will be renewed on the slow train,

moving along the tracks.

Hidden Lives

From deep within a heart of stone,

lies the essence of a kernel, soon to bloom.

Behind these stony faces, tears run dry,

emotions hidden inside the outer shell,

where hope mixes with fear, and a suppressed cry.

The seedling will soon sprout,

when watered by tears of joy;

then, this plant will blossom in the sunshine,

of a new day, when faith reigns,

in the hearts of once lifeless ruins.

The stones from where the seedlings thrived,

will break away to reveal what was hidden inside –

people stepping out from beneath the earth,

to greet the sunrise with all that they are worth.

No more concealed in the basements below;

now, blessed to watch the sun’s glow.

Butterflies

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.