Taras Shevchenko

Taras follows me— wherever I go, giving such inspiration, consent and dares me to speak out my mind; encouraging me to search for freedom, thru my thin voice, against the treacherous tactics of life. Again and again, he’s speaking in a finest manner and as I talk to him he turns me not away. He stands amidst the trees. His eternal throne— the park of Kyiv’s wisdom, where I love hanging around, waiting for the great red bell chimes. And, as always, as I pick the yellow caterpillar with two lights on to bring me home from a day’s travel, I see him nodding in silence, while hospitable hands wave in the wind. Now I see his face no more, but everyday I feel him and hear his voices. His voices— in the praises of my peers, in the psalms of my neighbors and of the people of the streets, in the whirs of the birds and in the twitches of the fishes, in the smiles of the flowers and of the tares, in the sound of the rivers, of the seas, and of the mountains, too. He’s a friend I owe this life, urging me on— to sow duds of thought, to bloom near a placid stream.