The 9th of May




Laughter lingered in the cold night air,

Like snowflakes caught in crystal glass,

Hurrahs rang out as tears were wept,

For the lost, returned, for memories kept,

Of the days we feared would never pass,

Unless we burned the monster’s lair.


Bright flames flashed from torches high,

Like sunbeams of our victory dance,

Trumpets sang, and tunes were played,

For freedom’s joy, the reckoning made,

With courageous hearts and bloodied lance,

What choice had we, to live, or die.


Banners waved like a crimson sea,

Whipped by winds of a mighty gale,

Toasts were made and glasses filled,

For the struggle won, for all those killed,

By bombs, by flames, machine gun hail,

Who died for freedom, the right to be.


Boots on stones shook Moscow walls,

Like drums of gods in victory songs,

Engines roared as planes swept past,

For one last time, this flight their last,

Their courage to us all belongs,

And sung will be in hallowed halls.


But then an old man, grey and bent,

Like a lion, old, on distant plain,

Rose slowly straight with upraised hand,

From which there poured a silent sand,

Who said, “This war is won, this fascist slain,

But cursed are we to new torment.”


Then to dreadful shapes he did transform,

As silence sapped our will to speak,

First a banker, then a fiend,

Then of merchants who on death are weened,

Their vile breath of death did reek,

Who rob the world, a locust swarm.


Through shifting shapes he led our eyes,

From ancient wrongs to future woes,

Then changed again, with grizzled hair,

To show us scenes of life right fair,

Where no one slaves and no one owes,

To remember Revolution’s prize.


“This,” said he, “is now all  yours,

But the fight goes on, you must stay strong,

Though by you slain, they shall return,

If you forget or never learn,

That endless greed breeds endless wrongs,

And those who worship bloody wars.”


Then he turned to walk away,

And left us to our darkening night,

Our joy now tinged with future fears,

As we danced to dry our burning tears,

For all those lost, who gave their lives

For what we won the 9th of May.










8 comments on “The 9th of May

  1. Irina says:

    Pas des commentaires- je tire mon chapeau et je pleure, Maître…
    Une chose seulement: Mon grand-père… Berline… a quoi bon?


  2. Irina says:

    Mon cher Maître❗❗❗
    Je devais être plus clair dans mon 1er commentaire: je tire mon chapeau a Vous, Poète❗
    Et je pleure parce que je suis Russe, mais histoire a été complètement révisée…
    En Russie c’est pas trop évidente, mais ici (en Amérique du Nord) cette révision est terrifiante, sinon horrifique…
    Je dois Vous parler, c’est urgent, alors permettez-moi Vous écrire, svp⁉ ça m’est égal – ici ou email, juste donnez-moi Votre permission & Votre préférence si Vous voulez bien.
    Grande Merci ❗❗❗


  3. Irina says:

    Just a Vous aider Vous souvenir de moi ~~~Votre email je le connais déjà. Merci~_~


  4. Christopher Black says:

    Oui, certainement, j’attend votre message par email si vous voulez ou ici. et un grand merci.


  5. Irina says:

    Maître, je Vous demande pardon❕ j’ai presque Vous envoyé mon message, mais après avoir bien réfléchi, j’ai compris que (encore une fois, ou plutôt comme toujours) je suis une lâche névrotique 😕 alors ce message Vous le recevrez ce matin par email.

    PS. Ma mère est devenue Votre “fan” fidèle ~~~ elle a consacrée toute la journée à Votre blog😌
    MERCI❕🌠🌠🌠&a plus❕


  6. Inspiring poem. Well Prepared.


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