Mariupol, Mary’s City, vast,

Alive with workers, artists, children,

Industrious beside its brooding sea.

Long-gone occupiers named it

For their Russian queen. This gray morning,

Solitary snowflakes wander over

Mariupol bombed waterless,

Over its starving remnant fleeing.

Comes to mind another Mary,

Birthing for the world the Bread of Life.

All I can know of Mariupol now

Is an infant barely born, dead,

And his shrieking, dying mother.



Deanna Harrington Christiansen



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