She Was Only Eighteen

Zoya.
Such a simple name, yet so profoundly it affects me.
If I could feel but a fraction of her pain,
Or if only for a moment I could experience
The fear and uncertainty of her daily life,
I’m not sure that I could bear to carry on.
She was only eighteen,
And I wonder, what ambitions did she hold?
What hope for the future did she sacrifice
So that the future might hold hope for others?
Zoya.
Such a simple name, yet embedded in my mind.
It echoes through my brain and at night
I try to fill her humble shoes, creeping through the dark,
Torch in hand, rebel with a noble cause,
Counting the breaths of a sleeping enemy.
Does doubt invade my mind as I take those perilous steps,
Treading softly on frozen earth?
Such courage I cannot understand or hope to possess.
Zoya.
Grainy images in black and white
Speak of a horrendous end to a short life.
I see her young and serious, alive and free.
The absence of a carefree smile foreshadows
The darkness of the path she will soon take.
I see her defeated yet not broken, humiliated yet proud,
A young woman escorted to her doom
By grim-faced soldiers, heartless occupiers.
I see her finally broken, lifeless, hanging by her neck,
Yet somehow beautiful in her final defiance,
Free at last from those endless hours of torment.
Zoya.
Lying lifeless in the snow, still a pretty young woman
If not for the hideous wounds in her pale chest,
Her dignity finally stripped, pallid breasts exposed.
Did they laugh as they desecrated her corpse?
Was the business of dealing death only a game
For those that fought behind the crooked cross?
The mind reels upon contemplating
The demonic face beneath the human mask,
And a tear rolls down my cheek so many decades too late.
The horror of her demise haunts me, and I know
That I could never walk that path if called upon to do so.
I know that I would conceal myself within the masses
And hope that death would pass me by.
Zoya;
Beaten, burned, frozen, hanged,
And she was only eighteen.