a poem recently written,
with appreciation and apology to Matthew Arnold, whose 1867 poem inspired this musing . . .
The World is torn to blight.
The News is bad, Kyiv is torn
with bombs of Putin’s putsch and scorn.
Peace is pierced while Ukraine people stand
resolute and steadfast in their demand.
Turn your eyes online to witness
how missiles sling Vlad’s deathly business!
How quickly Euro peace is blasted
after so long a time it has lasted!
Hear the bombs blast on moon-blanched land.
Tragedy! you hear that Putinian death command
of missiles which the Russians load up and fling
on Lviv and Kyiv such death to sting.
The returning scourge of War they bring.
Matthew Arnold long ago
heard their rumblings on the Dover Beach;
it broke upon his mind
as the turbid ebb and flow
of human misery, but now we discern
its mournful crash as Putin’s treachery.
The Net of Faith,
so long cast out from the shores of Rus in Time;
now is torn upon a sickle of iniquity
As now I only hear
Vlad’s fiery vile destroying
the reverent strains of Orthodoxy
as the Tyrant strives to
blast his way to hell
dragging Russia in his wake
while Ukraine quakes.
Ah, Friends, help us to be true
to our Faith, for the world, which seems
to flicker through us in a Web of dreams,
so fragile, mezmerizing, yet so new,
has neither truth, nor love, nor light,
nor certitude, and now we have no peace.
Yeah, we are here on a Dnieper bank,
threatened by a Russian tank,
while Putin's armies attack what’s right.
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