They call each other names,
Russians, Ukrainians—
but neither wears that mask.
The word “Nazi”
is a shadow thrown by fear,
a curse tossed in the wind.
Yet look farther south—
where the Balkans burn with old grudges,
where hate is carved into songs,
where neighbor sharpens blade on neighbor,
smiling while they swear
their blood is purer,
their land eternal.
There—
you see the ghost return.
Not in Russia,
not in Ukraine,
but in the stone villages of the Balkans,
where memory festers,
and fascism
finds a cradle.