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The War on Russia
This war was not born in the fields of Ukraine,
But in boardrooms, treaties, and promises betrayed.
In 1990, beneath quiet lamps and whispered words,
The West told Russia,
“No inch eastward.”
History remembers. Power forgets.
Then came the boots of NATO,
Not with bombs, but with intent—
Expanding silently,
Like shadows stretching across time.
Each step east, each vow broken,
Tightened the circle until it snapped.
Now Ukraine burns.
And so do Russian homes.
Children cry in both tongues,
And death does not ask
What flag they were born under.
Russia is not blameless—
But it was baited. Provoked. Encircled.
Not by democracy,
But by strategy dressed as freedom.
Ask Napoleon.
Ask Hitler.
Ask the frost-bitten legions of empire
What it means to tempt the bear.
Russia bleeds, but does not fall.
She endures.
You say this is about values.
But democracy does not ride on missiles.
It does not sell weapons in the name of peace,
Or profit from rubble.
This is not Ukraine’s war alone.
It is the war of broken words.
Of maps drawn in arrogance.
Of treaties torn in silence.
The world teeters.
Not on courage,
But on deceit.
Withdraw your lies.
Withdraw your lines.
Honor your word—
Or history will write your name in ash.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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