MEMORIES OF THE "BLACK TULIP"
I am the dog of war. A sergeant, staying
In the reserve. But won't forget the sight
Of bodies, plowed by mines, torn and decaying,
The sight of skeletons, burned by thermite.
Escorting the "Black Tulip" is the torture.
They lie in plastic shrouds, in special bay.
Most unidentified, with only feature -
Three letters on the bags - the "DNA".
Rostov. Refrigerator. It's so painful.
My comrades, brothers are returning home
Sealed in the zincous coffins... I feel woeful:
I am with them. Alive. My heart in gloam.
The airdrome. The truck refueller. Waiting.
Two days without a sleep, eyes full of rheum,
My sleeves are wet of tears, my head's pulsating:
"I'd better have a drink, suppress the doom"...
With vodka in my glass, I asked the crew man,
"And what's the point?" - "Wait. You WILL comprehend.
We pay the last respects as we are human.
And may the earth rest light on them, my friend".
The weather in Siberia was dismal:
The rain. The crying women: mothers, wives...
I'd like to leave it all behind, be "normal"...
But memories MUST live through all our lives.
Andrey Ledashev
Перевод стихотворения Андрея Ледащева Воспоминания о «черном тюльпане» выполнила Анна Штрассе 🙏🏻
