it is strange already two wars
have passed, and a third is on its way
but there is no Tolstoy
neither in body nor in nature

there is his bike
his Remington and phonograph
so many places - living and wet
the same oak or buffet

but emotional depths
were taken away from us
to Rio or to Caracas
into African jungles

an ensign having lived through Afghan
would he ever write something
he is squeezed by life to death
and stoned if not drunk

or I see it in a nightmare -
a lieutenant of special forces
who worked hard in Chechnya
is suffering: Phrase cannot be set
Thought does not walk the string

Translated from Russian by Tatiana Bonch-Osmolovskaya