I Am Moldova

I am Moldova.

My father is Romanian, my mother Ukrainian.

A Transylvanian blood in my veins,

Kipchak roots in her soul.

A little Hungarian in me saves my mind,

And yes — injustice for others hits hard.

How long will you mock this?

Especially Ukrainians.

Do I have no right

to be nonconformist?

I listen to rock,

pierced nose, pierced lip.

A pierced navel, abs I worked for.

And what of it?

I love Tommy Cash, Estonian rap.

Is it hard for you to sign him?

I just explore, I just live.

Bullies attacking me for being me —

idiotic.

I am a child, my will is mine.

Mamalyga is my food.

Smoked fish is my joy.

I can hiss like a snake —

and what do you care?

Every challenge you throw,

my audacity answers.

New Year? I’ll drink with you.

Each dare of yours, my idiom,

I know how it ends.

I live in Europe,

my favorite country.

Latinos around,

each fierce when struck.

I am white.

I am not gypsy.

My life — gadgets,

my life — gaming.

Ice Age squirrels hoarding nuts,

and what’s wrong with that?

Father, my life is English.

I grow in words.

Better and better each day.

I write poems for you —

my confession.

Sultan, my rabbit, laughs at the story.

And yet, there’s a reason it all happens —

dreams end, stories close.

So here I am:

Moldova,

Transylvanian blood,

Kipchak heart,

Hungarian soul.

Nonconformist, loud, honest, free.