Here is a sobering poem (prose) written by a Russian soldier.
Combelick
Russian Poetry
I guess this is more prose than poetry, but war has a way of bringing out the creativity in those who serve. Some of them are lucid, and some of them know what is happening. After writing this, the author will pick up his gun and continue to fight, and that is what amazes me. He can say all of this, and yet it will never be reflected in his actions.
This comes from “Xmuroe Utro†on Telegram. “I wrote this long ago, but it remains relevant today. In the beginning, when we still believed them, they took away from us power, truth, idealism, a sense of security, hope for justice and a normal future. Later, we stopped believing, but they didn’t care anymore because they managed to get factories, newspapers, ships, mines, TV channels, fair elections, and changes of power. Over the years, while disbelief gave way to well-fed apathy, while we were dozing, they picked up gas, timber, oil, banks, land, water, and the sky. During a short-term disturbance, while we crowded and argued with each other, they managed to steal our protest, along with the hope of the possibility of victory and faith in the viability of our leaders. Then, during the years of hungry apathy, since they had already taken all other benefits, they began to rummage through our pockets in search of saved pennies and bread crumbs. Finding almost nothing there, out of anger, they broke the peace with Ukraine, a strong ruble, and spoiled the cheese. In return, they threw us chains and several clamps so we could spell out the word “ass.†And now they are in no hurry to stop  after all, they can still melt the fat from under our skin, scrape off the meager stubble, put the skin on drums, and feed the meat to the chained dogs. And then, they will take the chains and clamps away because they won’t be necessary any longer and take them to the scrap yard. We will no longer be needed or important to them. Not needed, not important, not dear, not dangerous, not warm, and not hot. We are nothing to them. And only the deathly silence, sunshine, portraits of the leaders, and our skeletons will remain.â€Â
Combelick

