In Bakhmut’s fields, flowers grow
though missiles fall and shells explode.
Green shoots spring from shattered paves,
small flagpoles that will someday wave
above the dead, banners of gold.
Not here the poppy, nor the rose
defends the fallen who repose
silent in death, in life the brave
in Bakhmut’s fields.
So are the names of heroes told:
in spattered blood across the snow,
in sunflower-guarded rows of graves.
Who never knew their city saved,
yet fearless faced the fate they chose
in Bakhmut’s fields.
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