silver wings will fly me off
this ground to new shores.
Same air, same water,
same species, but so different.
So not my home self.
New me, new calling,
new tongue. New Russian speaking
self, Ukraine flavor.
Sixteen months to tell
the truth about my Savior:
ancient wine, young flask.
If it weren't the truth,
those silver wings would not soar
me into Ukraine.
But, truth shines truth-bright
regardless of the bearer.
I will go and talk.
Speak. Announce. Proclaim.
Declare. Make way. Rooftop song.
This will be my joy.
