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We stand behind a velvet mask. Hiding in the dark.
We listen to the murmur of the strangers.
Some wander in their own thoughts.
Some seek solitude and pray.
Others embrace and bang fists in ritual.
Everyone different, but all the same.
Our red boots, cover our cracked and blistered feet,
our torn and injured bodies.
Stretched from sweat, this is our armor.
Red leather.
We wear white silk shirts, sharovary, and a poyas;
a vinok and a zhupan.
We wear them with pride; in ourselves and each other.
in where we are today, and where we'll be tomorrow.
Our clothes identify us as a group, we represent a nation.
We brace ourselves against a steal barre, and pry our bodies into form.
In hope of defying what to others seems impossible.
In hope of turning lofty dreams to reality.
In hope of meeting our own unrealistic expectations.
Yet each day, as we inch closer, the expectations get farther.
Not because it can't be done; because we've already proven that it can.
We practice, train, rehearse. Sweat, laugh, and cry.
Thankless effort gone unnoticed.
The murmur grows louder.
Behind the velvet mask, we gather as one.
Everyone's face wears a different emotion, but they all wear red armor.
In two hours it will be over.
Every ounce of sweat, every tear, all the pain
will be worth it.
This is the thank you that counts.
The thank you without a face.
The thank you without a voice.
The reason behind all the questions, all the doubt.
The roar of the crowd.
Raz, Dva, Tryzub. The mask comes off. The music begins.
They become Tryzub!
By John Stadnyk
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