Hymn to the Ancestors

Machine gun tears the silence, 
bullets shatter the steel. 
Ghosts glide like shadows 
past those who fell still.

For those who stepped not back, 
they pour gold on the pedestal. 
No such orders exist 
to bring them back from the dead.

Smoke escorts to sunset 
the souls of the brave. 
Plains at dawn: hurry! 
Drones get the command “retreat”.

Battery holds its charge, 
jammers strike the brains, 
fly to the foes, 
turn them to dead scrap.

RER jams us, they rain 
tungsten cluster bombs. 
But the dead take no shame, death split even. 
Ee-ee-ee… from Yakut snows to Baltic forts, 
gathered again we are — great-grandsons of Peter’s regiments.

Let in Brussels they weave 
sanctions’ noose with knot, 
perish they and those 
who helped them hold.

From skies rushes to aid 
VKS host — Russians to support. 
RER jams us, they rain 
tungsten cluster bombs. 
But the dead take no shame, death split even.

Ee-ee-ee… from Yakut snows to Baltic forts, 
gathered again we are — great-grandsons of Peter’s regiments.