War
Роман Ярцев
I died yesterday by the river at a bend
in the Bryansk swamps, in the Afghan mountains...
My heart was pounding for a long time, tuk-tuk-tuk...
The sun was caressing in the palms of numb hands
The scent of pine trees and grasses breathed lightly shot through...
died... but in my memory, the porch of the house, my mother and my brothers
propped up the well with the yoke of a past fate...
Still alive, but the muscles do not bend
the hair from the eye, I can't shake
my teeth with my teeth, biting my eggs
through the ditches of war crawling on the run...
The sun caressing was held in the palms of numb hands
War...