Nine and a half grams of lead and twenty brass
On just one shell, on one bullet.
Casting, molding, frieze, blitz control.
One cartridge will soon recognize its role:
Be for good or pierce the peaceful,
Kill the infidel or innocent.
Although what's the difference, the bullet on the drum,
Who shoots a rifle, and who breathes incense.
Well, the path is not near, the sleeve flickers,
Someone’s face reveals something.
The end is near, the engine is dead, everything is scattered,
Break boxes, on horns cartridges stick.
Delving into the commander's heartfelt speech,
Go rifle owners in the assault with the idea of the world.
The attack without warning, whether it is an enemy or a population,
There are seven soldiers in a remote village.
Dry noon, sand and wind, cob house,
AK on a platoon, the same cartridge in it.
Screams, crying, son hides mother behind his back.
Sounds of cotton, on her face purple ripples.
A man’s death is grief, hundreds is statistics.
The bullets were explosive - says ballistics.
Leaves covered all that was left of them,
The remains turned into lists of dry numbers.
Kid, fuck, young, got on the rampage,
The bullet smashed his mouth, the world began to spin like an attraction.
Blow-up on concrete,
The head turned on its side, the battalion sees its own.
But not the boy is the essence, he is the statistics of war,
And that the earth will not devour, after the crows will devour.
Mother is unlikely to recognize when the son has no face,
And only the eyes, everything else carried the charge of lead.
They see their father’s house, stormtroopers, tricolor,
How to create peace, breaking the contract.
The bald dogs were ordered not to swallow bromine,
And now the sisters are stripped on the floor raw.
Enemies are not buried, milled with tanks,
Guzzle vodka for victory, scoff at the remains.
This, I am sure, will not show Ostankino,
And our hero turns inside out.
The head was flattened, and the eyes did not see
How peacemakers killed off their parents.
The father's turn, one bullet mother,
No face, no eyes and no one to recognize.
A man’s death is grief, hundreds is statistics.
The bullets were explosive - says ballistics.
Leaves covered all that was left of them,
The remains turned into lists of dry numbers.
