We mend the plow, we patch the road, While others strut in borrowed coats. They call our silence fear or frost — But we don't blink, we count the cost. They scribble plans, redraw the map, Toast empty deals with clinking glass. But while they talk in distant halls, We stitch our land with broken walls. We don’t stomp or plead. We don’t roar on cue. The storm waits quiet in an old boot too. Don’t push the horses — we ride when it’s time. We measure our thunder in silence and grime. Don’t push the horses — don’t tempt what you don’t know. We carry the weight — we choose when to go. They came with papers, spoke of peace, And sniffed our borsch like it was grease. We smiled, served them a bowl of truth — With garlic, salt, and buried roots. We drink uzvar from chipped old jars and toast with crusts of rye, While diplomats play chess with ghosts and wonder why we won’t comply. They film our homes with fire behind and call it breaking news, But don’t know grandma hides a drone beneath her Sunday shoes. We learned to laugh in air-raid night and plant in cratered rows, With songs that scare the wolves away and keep the crows in clothes. They sell us peace with fancy ties — we answer with a stare, ‘Cause every inch we’ve walked was earned, and we’re still standing there. Don’t push the horses — we ride when it’s time. We measure our thunder in silence and grime. Don’t push the horses — don’t tempt what you don’t know. We carry the weight — we choose when to go. Don’t push the horses. We ride when the land says go.
