When we moved to this country, I was just ten.“It will all be fine, trust me”But I was so jealous of them. The ones who spoke perfect English,With no doubts in their minds,With their language distinguished,Loudly laughing at mine. I then cursed my home,Vowed to never come back.Said, it was its blame alone,For my, so-called, “lack”. Lack of thought, lack of words,Lack of sense, lack of speech.I was in between worlds,And my patience ran weak. Erase, leave behind, and forget,Detach, close your eyes, try to breathe.I guess that’s the karma I get,A life, later, to the brim filled with grief. Grief for lost homes, for lost futures and lives,For all the lost children, their fathers and mothers.In this amoral war, it’s pure luck to survive,Escape from the murders of our so-called “brothers”. Now my old home, my old tongue, my old life,Is awaitadely gone, but why are there tears?With my family’s lives on the edge of a knife,I want to be home, for the first time in years.  I wish I could take it all back,All my words, tears, and hate, and wake up, Where this nightmare is gone, and my suitcase unpacked,Where I am home in Ukraine, and glad to be back.