I tread softly on the place where my home stands,
where eucalyptus trees whisper secrets in the wind
and my spirit stands unafraid.
Though my roots stretch far beyond,
to where the nightingales sing in sunflower meadows.
Bright sands of the coast are forever my own,
yet Chernihiv’s soil is where my lineage grows,
For there every tree, every landmark, every stone,
speaks of a history my blood has always known.
Family ties weave the fabric of my home.
Within my chapters, a dual legacy is written,
a fusion of two worlds that shaped me; raised me –
one where Coogee's curve meets the rolling tide,
the other, a breadbasket of Europe where my deep roots reside.
In the silence of night, I hear echoes of my family’s prayers,
the everlasting tales of the living and the dead.
My great-grandmother’s voice,
in a mother tongue soft yet strong,
carried on a breeze from a homeland far but near,
telling tales of golden wheat fields, spirits we once could hear.
Sowing the seeds of legacy for those yet to come.
A scent of Aunt Olya’s borshch
lingers in the same crimson broth
made by the woman who suffered long journeys
to become my Grandmother Olya.
Two generations, one name,
bound by more than tradition,
hands that carry the same skill,
cooking in kitchens worlds apart.
One remains rooted in the soil of our ancestors, fighting an evil force,
the other fled to carve paths for her kin, escaping the grasp of the same, sinful being.
Both bring forth a taste of familial love and home,
behind a shadow of generational fear,
where every bite is a memory and every spoonful, a tear.
The past is bound to the present,
the struggle etched into hands,
the trauma branded into minds,
the pain scarring souls.
Yet through it all, we live and rise.
Forging roots that will never die.
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