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Boots stuck in the mud,
khaki pants belted above,
bullets on one side, green binoculars on the other
jackets tucked in
heavy Kalashnikovs on their shoulders
their strength carries them weightlessly
they braid their hair carelessly,
hair-banded with green, red and pink, the flowers of spring
they are mountain-hopping
chanting along their way,
old words of our ancestors
“we have no friends but the mountains”
their struggle is of their late loved ones
the martyrs of the land and freedom
their struggle is of millions scattered around
whose land vanished with a stroke of a pen.