Thy Daily Bread

Maria Caro Gabriella Lynn


"Thy Daily Bread"

Tribute In
Remembrance Of Those
Who Needlessly Suffered In The
Famine-Genocide in Ukraine

Is it tasteless to your lips?
Can you see it at all? Can you hear it?
Does your heart beat faster,
While you imagine how their hearts beat slower?

Breathe In.
It is the sweet, succulent scent of
Freshly baked bread in the piche.
No, actually it's not.
There is a stench. A sticky, stifling

Look around. See the stench.
You're surrounded in it.
Caged in it. Locked in it.
Try to breathe. Lift your rib cage.

It is here. In the homeland.
In the breadbasket of Europe.
It is in brothers, mothers, fathers, sisters,
Friends and all family alike.
They are bare. Naked to the soul.
Stripped of all themselves.

Much grain there is that grows on this land.
Fields upon rows and rows grow
rich and fertile.
Black soil smudges across faces
Bodies, pile upon pile in pits beyond pits.
Swollen and skeletal.

Close them. Stop!
lt's too hard. Think of good.
Ahh, Paris! French fresh bread and


"Thy Daily Bread"

Buttery butter melting in mouths.
Sidewalk card perhaps?
Sparkling silver knives slice through bread butter blocks onto
Brown freshly cut slices of bread.
Marks on butter.
Tell no story.

Songs in fields once sang.
Peasant life once bliss.
A farmer, a friend, a family at home.
Culture. Independence.
A quota.

Collect the grain into the granaries.
Thump, thump, no knock.
Dead on the floor.
Red men and red blood.
Nowhere to go.

Borders that cage and curtains that lock in light.
You know no one knows.
You are alone.
Vast land and no life.

Grey, dreary, terrifying.
Your wrist has once again broken.
Try to lift your finger to close your daughter' s eyes.
Frozen open. It's too cold.
Strength to endurance.

Guns to pitchforks.
Strong to weak.
lt's the hammer that's struck strong,
Forces the nail back into the wood.
The hit was quick. The nail bent.
Sap poured out of the wood.

Modern inhumanity in
A period darker than black.
Peasants threatened a ruler.
To Stalin, Hitler was of no threat.


"Thy Daily Bread"

Twenty-five thousand in a day.
One thousand in an hour.
Seventeen in a minute.
Concealed into the richness of black soil.

You stand there, it's not gone.
Your feet can feel their souls.
Their spirits are in the air.
Their struggles can still strangle the cold.
Their moans can outcry the thunder.

You hear a little voice from the swollen,
Straggly womb of a young belly.
"Can I please have some bread? Mama,
Where is the bread?"

Her heart does not beat anymore,
Yet there is a child inside, there is plenty of grain but,
No bread.
Hungry. Famine.

Imposed. Manmade.
To children of one kind.
Provide is no common word,
The word whispered is to

For once they held regional nationalism.
For once there was genocide.
For once life has now told us,
To listen to their cry.

Courage and conviction to
Hear the cold, scary, clear cry.
Such gruesome atrocities
We now meet eye to eye.