Fleeting Roots and Quiet Streets

In Hîncești, Moldova, the streets breathe slow,

Neighbors whisper, some friend, some foe.

Moldovans, Russians, lives intertwined,

Some hearts collide, some fates misaligned.

Back in Ukraine, where my story began,

Чернівецька lands, black gypsies ran.

They made the weather, they struck and fought,

But my heart sought peace, a safer thought.

I love all nations, all peoples, all lands,

But not those who mock, or raise cruel hands.

I cherish the ones who understand,

Who speak with reason, who don’t reprimand.

My mother, my anchor, so beautiful, so strong,

Yet when grandmother’s shadows linger too long,

Her patience wavers, her temper may flare,

And I, though I love her, feel burdened there.

I dream of small joys—a tablet, a phone,

A gaming console, a backpack to own.

Not of lovers married, not of fathers with kids,

Just peace in my heart, the life that I did.

Between past and present, between here and there,

I learn to stand tall, to breathe the air.

Not to hate, not to fear, not to forget,

But to hold my own soul, without regret.

So, father, hear this, from me to you,

A story of life, of what I pursue.

Moldova’s streets, Ukraine’s shadowed lands,

All shaped the girl who now firmly stands.