Evocation of the lost territory to the mind

 

And being home is to be wrapped up in the known. To feel the caring beauty flow and shower one’s mind with thoughts of rest. To nest is rest. 

An old man, with skin as dry as the pages of an 18th century book, the ink of which wrote out his story in lines of wrinkles, was taking pictures of the peacefully energetic protest. As he pulled the camera away from his face I saw a joyful boy in his eyes. I saw the time frame and the depth of the so-craved desire for change finally coming true, happening just there in front of his eyes, the moments eternally trapped: both inside his camera and my mind. I saw the first-hand-experienced sense of worth for all the battles that he fought and his greatness for allowing us, the children of further generations, to walk these lands where tanks have chatted. 
Their chat was silenced as the red squeezed the countries with a sharp five pointed star. Penetrating minds till all are nailed and narrowed down, pushed in and off their beliefs, into the new dictatorship. The knife-sharp angles were slicing out languages, cultures, free mind sets, till there is only a star mold left. Some have knelled. Some allowed the red to place the star mark upon their forehead, burned alive on skin as farm animals were numbered. Such animals have only acted, but carried within them unlimited blue skies and never gave up the yellow field’s embrace. 
Dictators fell, yet the five points of the star clung to those it has molded. The center and core of this symbol have been eternally rooted in its origins, holding the lost territories chained, connected, pulling threads when needed. 
But a new journey has begun. Books in previously suppressed languages were issued and, every time a native word was spoken, a nightingale was born. The seeds of a singing field, planted centuries ago, now had the freedom of full growth. To reach the blue sky and fly into the depth of infinity. 
Unfortunately, yellow was not only the color of endless fields, but also the lavatory pan of the one who collected gold from his people. For in freedom he found sin. In actions never true to words, he barely even spoke the language of the nightingale birds. 
The rooted seeds of yellow fields are arteries of Cossack hearts. The wheat has grown strong, some seeds have yielded inviolable bark oaks. The core, the essence are the same and time has come for justice: yellow is the color of the free, not of stolen singing fields. 
In many cases, the begging is the most difficult part. For me it was difficult to have hope for a breakthrough, and unfeeling cynicism sprayed my mind. The heads of many people, blue and yellow flags waving in spirited protest, for me flickered in grey tones. Until I saw the unity. Previously un-shown love for the Motherland held us all embraced - it was the time to finally let it burst out in national colors and speak what we all held hostage within ourselves for years of Independence. 
We shared the past, poems, the history of Heroes, each and every one of us, and melted in the present moment, looking hopefully into the future that each drop of us created here and now. Suppression wasn’t far beyond. The horizon turned into black helmets, running towards the plentiful fields. Stay still, stay strong. We are a shield of the beliefs; we are not scared of the police. 
The center of Kyiv, Maidan, turned into Zaporizhian Sich. Fully protected with carefully handmade barricades, spirited with old Cossack, Bandera and other patriotic slogans. The artworks and flags waved on the wind of freedom, calling out to candles in all Ukrainian and world-wide hearts. It was the creation of a whole new city within the center of the Ukrainian capital. Churches and priests performing confessions right there on Maidan, artists drawing activists and beautifying tents of local citizens, the IT brigade providing people with an internet connection and TV news, Open University educating on topics of politics, history, literature. “Don’t forget to call your mother” sung from the tent made me smile as I looked at cheerful students supporting democracy. And in every face, in every step I made through Maidan, my heart has grown wings so powerful, the unity and goals shared will definitely stretch out into the whole Ukraine being fruitful. 
The eyes of a man as old as our country, as newborn as first mother’s tears. We were born from clean waters, hills of greatness and forests of wisdom. The Motherland is our nest and till Freedom is gained we shall peacefully protest. And being home is to be wrapped up in the Known. To feel the caring beauty flow and shower our minds with thoughts of rest. To nest right now means to protest.

​

Published in:

2014 “Rising for Freedom and Democracy in Ukraine” Brine Books Publishing