From left, President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine, US President Donald Trump and Vice President JD Vance
By Folorunso Fatai Adisa
He heard the wails from weeping widows in Mariupol,
The shattered screams of orphans in Odessa,
The wind carried whispers of war from Crimea,
And yet, the world turned its back.
He did not come draped in diamonds,
Nor wrapped in the riches of the West.
No silk tie, no polished shoes,
Just the weary weight of war on his shoulders,
And the dust of death clinging to his shirt.
Trump watched with a smirk,
Vance listened with a sneer,
As Zelenskyy sat, not as a beggar,
But as a man who had buried too many.
A man who had seen the sun rise
Over cities turned to cinders,
And still believed in dawn.
Because he requested an assurance,
And they knew there’s no insurance,
For him and his people.
They asked for his suit,
As if fabric could replace fallen fathers,
As if thread could stitch together
The torn flesh of a thousand sons.
They did not see the wounds he wore,
The invisible scars of war.
They raised their voices to silence him,
As Putin’s bombs silenced his people.
They cut him down with words,
As Russia cut down his land with fire.
Blood runs red in Kyiv,
As it does in Moscow,
As it does in Washington,
Yet some still choose to count coins
Instead of coffins.
And so, he walked out, not a pauper,
But a soldier, a leader, a man.
Not in a suit,
But in sorrow.
Not with riches,
But with resolve.
For history will not remember the ties they wore,
Only the blood they ignored.