The Partisans
I packed trouble,
stowed away hope,
and running north,
turned heels on golden Valice.
They took the pass and filled the breach
with twenty-thousand dead.
They set fire to the villages,
scattered us like sparks,
turned men and boys to ash,
captured Golian and Viest.
But they never marked our courage on a map or chart,
never sensed the earthquake resting in our hearts.
They searched the shells of ruined homes,
the desolated woods of snow and ice.
I wept for Ostrý, Grúň and Kl’ak;
I wept for quiet Valice.
Within the howling dark we faced the winter
cloaked in youth, running toward the dawn.
Not what we fought for.
Not what we bled for.
Some future we might never see
beyond the tides of war, the longing of the free.
But when the branches shake with snow against the sky,
I know these trees, like me, are glad to be alive.
First published in inScribe Journal of Creative Writing, Issue 10: Journey, August, 2025. Print, p. 27.