The sounds of violence break the silence between the broken trees and dying screams of young men’s dreams. Steel eagles fly between the sounds of gunfire, heralds of the last grasp of a dead empire. The claws of drones dropping grenades and armor burning from the raids, there are no victory parades, reduced to beasts by order and to flesh by cannonades of buckshot, while in the trenches, soldiers’ feet rot. Snow tainted with red blood and bloody snot, lips that turn blue in the night cold, above them hangs – bold flag of perfidy that once betrayed the world of old. Last gasps of the deceased turned into scraps of meat, all in the name of greed of the elite.
St. George on his white steed, heraldry of an imperial creed. This prison of the nations, in all its incarnations from Finland to Siberia, all lands of the Imperia. Lands of despair and dragons that rule men, so much reduced. The Lingua Franca of its ruling classes, the misery of toiling masses, maniacal psychosis that’s merely self-induced. The rituals of death and terror, and all that butchery to make a madness that’s in error, entire people slaughtered and forgotten, all for a beautiful ideal. All for a vision of the past, a moment that was never real.
Polaris beaming from the north, its rays guide metal birds of prey. Solaris we will never reach, there is no wondrous future, nothing left to say. And Baikonur the pride of nations, built by the hands of countless deportations, no longer shining bright as rockets fly and children die, betrayed by adults who told them a cruel lie. Peace, the first sacrifice in the Empire’s name, vile stories always end the same.
Third Rome built on the swampy loam, that shone in divine gold of trinity, reborn Antares, red star of Ares’ Bane but much the same in its divinity, the troika of the executions, of the classes, revolutions. The wheel rolls on each iteration. Father of the Nation, Son that rose above his station, Holy Ghost in its true realization, ideal and dialectical perfection. Imperial power that brokers no objection, two headed eagle that rots down from the head, a dying state, is it too late, has all been said?
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