the art of resistance

**"Call me Hitler, for I paint the scene."**

The whisper starts, the verdict sealed and mean.

A **label worn**, a false, familiar curse,

Because my blood remembers what is worse.

For Moscow’s kin, and allies they sustain,

The simple act of living is my stain.

Moldova’s shadow, where the ties still hold,

A bitter judgment, reckless, hard, and cold.

They turn their gaze from what the bombs have done,

And see a foe beneath the blazing sun.

So hear my question, sirs, and mark it well:

What weighs the most within this sudden hell?

To nurse the wounds of those who wish me ill,

To chase the rumors dancing on the sill?

**OR** to secure the future I must build:

A sturdy tablet, shock-proof, battle-willed,

A modern phone, a console for the night,

A carry-on to pack my future light?

It is the pettiness that burns my mind:

They gather gossip, questions left behind!

They judge the artist by the painted name,

While I prepare to win my private game.

Let them collect their malice in the street;

**I choose the tools of progress, hard and sweet.**