Remembering Vladik Shikov and Western Impunity

Remembering Vladik Shikov and Western Impunity

“I don’t know how to write this letter,

I don’t know how to choose the right words,

they killed my five-year-old son today,

by a foreign drone launched from Ukraine.”

Little Vladik was in his front yard,

he was playing with a happy face,

with no care, nor worry of danger,

unaware they pinpointed his place.

Advising the criminal killers,

U.S. soldiers are in the Ukraine,

supported by their NATO allies,

where the silence of mainstream remains.

Evil pervades through western power,

by its banking and corporate controls,

callous decisions, greedy and wrong,

to fulfill their imperial goals.

The coup that they backed in the Ukraine,

is controlled by the western cartel,

who side with the fascists and Nazi’s,

who are bombing the Donbas with shells.

Just one of the millions of stories,

where the children are tortured and slain,

by western government positions,

redirecting the onus and blame.

So where was the media coverage,

for the essence, the outrage and shame,

for western support of the Nazi’s,

and their NATO inspired war games.

I’ve never seen such hypocrisy,

their support of the Avoz brigades,

politicians feigning remembrance,

while our soldiers turn inside their graves.

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The Activist Poet

About this Poem: On Monday, April 5, 2021, under grey skies in Yenakievo, the funeral of little Vladik Shikov took place, a 5-year-old child murdered by a Ukrainian drone on April 3 in front of his grandmother's house.

Vladik’s Mother - “Write a letter…I have not written such letters, I do not know how to choose the right words. They killed my son, took my life’s meaning. But they don't understand this pain, because their children are home and happy; and I live only with the belief that the guilty will be punished…And when I think for a minute that it could all stay in suspended condition, that children continue to die, my blood boils. Our children did not start a war. They are not guilty. Our children want to live. And if nothing changes after my son's death, then more innocent children will die. Let them raise their asses, let them move, start protecting our children. I apologize, I'm not feeling very well, I can hardly see the letter. It's even harder to find the right words."

The Azov Brigade is a Neo-Nazi Ukrainian National Guard regiment, based in Mariupol in the Azov Sea coastal region. It formed and was bankrolled during the US and NATO backed coup of the elected democratic government in Ukraine 2014. After the coup, the Azov Brigade was incorporated into the National Guard of Ukraine. The Ukraine Government is fascist and a puppet to the US and NATO.

Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day of long ago,

temper these aging eyes,

essence gone, that comes to life,

in grey November skies.

Silhouettes moving slowly,

parade my inner thoughts,

with Bayonets at ready,

their emotions tied in knots.

The trenches filled with soldiers,

waiting for bombs to stop,

in search for some damned reason,

to charge over the top.

Reliving moments gone,

life passes before their sight,

apologies made for wrongs,

with wishes to make them right.

And then the truth comes knocking,

it rears its ugly head,

and paints astonished faces,

on all the soldiers’ dead.

Bloody mud and empathy,

where lay the soldiers dreams,

are children lost forever,

to sick psychotic memes.

Lifeless now their bodies lay,

their spirits carry on,

all lost amongst the shadows,

of the millions who were wronged.

The people bought a story,

sons and brothers sent to die,

in someone else’s homeland,

the reasons just a lie.

Generals take their orders,

from economic forums,

receive another medal,

adding to decorum.

Final letters make it home,

all written months before,

carried to the grieving,

by a knock upon the door.

With promise to remember,

a day is set aside,

but hidden, is the reason,

for why it is they died.

Today I do remember,

who’s lives for me were given,

but the bastards who sent them there,

will never be forgiven.

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BY: The Activist Poet