three-soldiers

THIRTY YEARS WAR
(POEM)

…sins bear heavy fruit –
they transform the image of reality…
Beastly tracks are entangled,
The detachment lingers at the ford for a long time.
Warriors in the embrace of misfortune…

Rulers dreaming of great glory,
do not remember the light of a single star.

A broken-down wagon train struggles to move forward.
The merchant scolds the soldier.
Hunger is more evident than questioning.
What does the old peasant mutter?
She carries an invisible burden.
Have mercy, Father, for I am afraid…

I fear sudden disfigurement –
Im scared of a bullet or a knife –
A cripple cannot survive now.
Various dialects are mixed up.
And it moves into the unknown distance
The wagon train, defying gravity,
Because horizontality will prevail.

…in the pot, the stew is bubbling away,
the dinner dish smells fragrant…
All the sky is crossed by clouds.
Only the wheel believes in the road.
…all blame lies with spider-like ambition...

The village has become a feast for fire.
A pile of charred logs darkens.
This sight torments me:
Should I set fire to villages?
And the man looks stunned
At the ashes, which resemble dirty snow.

Roads, wagon trains, and bonfires.
Weariness, confusion, and haste.
Rulers are cunning and deceitful –
Their enemys misfortune delights them.
And churches and bridges collapse.
And people are just pawns in this cruel game.

Consciousness is flooded with madness,
when you encounter facts of savagery.
A deafening noise filled the white light,
but I long for crystalline silence –
a gloomy story doesnt offer it.
And distances are very tiring,
and there is essentially no way out.

Where is the bourgeois peace and tranquility?
The nobleman remains without dinner.
In this turmoil, alas, one cannot realize
the heavy breath of victory.
Do not meet the victors!
A reception is scheduled at the town hall on Wednesday.
Do not rely on pomp.
The seal spreads in a lilac hue.

Will the messenger reach his destination? But the horse is good.
The messenger is skilled in fencing,
you cant defeat him without a fight.
A nameless town flashes by.
The troops are merciless. Deceit is pointless.
Hopes and dreams are fruitless.
The world has gone to hell. There will be no future.
And the mass does not inspire faith.

Smoke rises from the fire. – Who are you? – A Croat. And you?
- Im a Genoese... Both of you are unshaven!
Cruel, indifferent, and simple…
And both miraculously survived the battle.
And both plundered churches,
raped women, set houses on fire,
violated orders
which they considered foolishness of the elders.

A bullet hits the helmet without touching the bone.
Only two things remain: life or death.
An invisible axis preserves destiny.
But I want to drink from the well.
And mindless herds
of people first go there and then here.
Only this herd does not bleat.
We dont need a shepherd – no, no...
I just want to forget these days as soon as possible.
And nothing more is needed for all ages.

Oh, the wagon train takes so long.
It has grown hairy again –
unshaven, unwashed, and evil.
Its easy to deal with the screeching hussy –
let her stay far from passion,
let her stare with wide eyes
into the hole where water drips –
let her stare aimlessly there:
at the gray, meaningless sky.
There are many holes in the canvas, and soon,
if you run out of bread on the road,
youll find your grave in it.

And bread is the most important ruler of all.

- Well, vagabond, have you spat out your tongue?
And the torture instruments heat up.
But the prisoner – not a hero at all -
stands firm for his own life
in these cruel times.

Betrayal is not a consequence of war:
no one is immune to guilt.
Pain rages – thats certain.
The unkind land laughs,
offering a mocking role
and weaving death from infernal torments.

Saxon, friend, I am the same...
I am also German, my attire is unsuitable,
I breathe in the dusty air.
I used to greedily devour meat,
now I gnaw on bark... Throw away the knife!
We are Germans, we should be friends! …
…lights flash in the distance…
And slowly a murderer descends towards the river,
thirsty for a drink…

But the water is permeated with bitterness.

The road is rutted and ruined.
- Did you hear? Thats a gunshot!
The road is full of potholes and bumps.
You cant escape a bullet,
and theres no escaping death.

…and the forest is like an evening backdrop.
The ferocity of these times
weighs on souls.
What will we find?
We are burning in a metaphysical fire,
and we cannot withstand the enemy –
we are not made of real stuff.

An arrow flies and fells the messenger –
death has invited him to the wedding feast.
The message is unread.
And the troops have lost their way. And the path itself is wretched.
One cannot have a dialogue with the Almighty.
But I want to rely on mercy!

And mercy is the most generous gift.

This city is like a labyrinth,
no one can guess the right route…
The fire has licked at the buildings.
The soldier is tired, although he is quite young –
the bloody war has exhausted him.

Should we judge the marauders? But by whom?
…lets go into metaphysical darkness.
In front of the house stands a gloomy old man, like an owl,
dropping useless words.
For years of mourning do not value anyones small life.
Do you hear? Its just a womans cry!
The old man is choked with curses.
Be silent until they tear out your tongue!

They are carrying precious objects from the churches.
(Will you call this war service?)
The poor wretch agrees to an exchange –
for fat is better than bright changes,
a patched shirt is more valuable than a gun.
Bandits are soldiers. That is, you and me…
And darkness already reigns in every soul.
And at every moment you stand on the edge,
beyond which lies a stinking hell.
Corpses stink.
But deeds also stink.

And no one wants to bury the dead!
Its not something I want to talk about!
Because we are moving forward –
always forward!
Glory awaits there! As warm
is home – if you can find it!

Shattered glass splashes.
Another cursed year has passed.

I need a review of Yuri Grigorievs painting Markitanka.