I want the long, sloping, snow crusted hills around my family’s worn, wooden
House that stands on the edge of the great Russian forests, the tree’s green and snow
Blanketed branches reaching out

Instead I am given the burning, smoke choked streets of Nazi Berlin, the scorched
Den of monsters. I am given tattered red and black flags hanging from broken and bullet
Pocketed buildings.

I want grey-white wispy smoke curling from an aged, heat warped chimney, the
Creak of the wooden boards laid down by my long dead great grandfather. I want to see
My mother hunched over a stream belching pot of meat and potato stew. I want my little
Sisters clinging to my arms, begging me to tell them stories from outside our secluded
World

But I am given a broken and bomb scarred city, burning hulks of tanks in the
Blood stained streets. I am given a heavy wooden rifle that I am forced to use on boy and
Old men masquerading as soldiers. I am given the screams of wounded and dieing men. I Am given death and hell that has inhabited the Earth.

I want the creak of my father’s house that I am to inherit. I want to hear the trees Outside our warm enclave, creaking in the cold, harsh Russian winds, their branches Cutting through the frozen air. I want the warm glow of the fireplace as my family gathers Around it, my parents and grandparents telling us stories of the world that died in the
Revolution, a world that is no longer ours. I want peace.