(Image: Volodymyr Zelenskyy)
They don't know you, strangers in the soldiers’ armor, but the yellow strips on your shoulders rip their chest apart with joy. Flurried, they rush by the wrecked village road, past the ruins of the next-door houses, and crosses in the fields, clenching asters from their wounded gardens.
“Thank you! Thank you!” rings in the cool September air. You turn, smiling sheepishly like you did nothing, and spread your arms to hug the crying grannies.
They don’t know you, weary boys in khaki, but they made you coffee in a thermos and kiss you like their own sons.
“Thank you! Thank you!” rings in the cool September air. You turn, smiling sheepishly like you did nothing, and spread your arms to hug the crying grannies.
They don’t know you, weary boys in khaki, but they made you coffee in a thermos and kiss you like their own sons.
