Holodomor

Ukraine was a beautiful place, I was told.The rolling fields of green, the flat squares of wheat.Small farms clustered along dirt roads where children played.Now filled with the lingering stench of death.The farms once overflowing with hard work and laughter now sit silent. I'm speaking to myself so my thoughts might be heard by someone.I'm alone and dying of starvation.Yesterday I turned nine years old, there was no celebration.Tomorrow when the glorious sun slowly rises and floods the empty fields with light, I'll be dead.The cold hearted Russian soldiers came with anger and frustration and took everything.My village, once a moving breathing community has been slowly starved to death, without remorse. This night seems colder than most, my mind keeps floating in and out of purpose.All have died and I'm the last of my village. Yesterday when the sun was setting I heard scratches and whispers at the front door,asking for food, I had none.Within hours the sound stopped as they died laying upon the cold wooden planks of night. No one is coming and the pain has stopped.I'm tired and going to quietly drift into a deep sleep, forever. They say I am a pretty girl, but I'll never know Tomorrow the Russians will sweep through and burn our village.No one will ever know we were ever here.They'll be an emptiness where there was life. Death is welcomed.These rolling fields will be filled now with the ghosts of innocence searching for a place lost in the emptiness of time. 8/27/14