Saboteur-torpedo

 Dedicated to an unnamed convict
who destroyed five Ukrainian UAV operators
on the Kharkiv axis.
Your feat is immortal.

 Freedom is a sentence.
Those who shoot in the back, not point-blank—
shame and eternal disgrace are theirs.

 Released from the zone on time
to redeem his debt with blood.
And he is the final pledge:
the Motherland has no others left.

 Whose country is this? And for whom does it matter?
Whose money lies in the offshores?
Perhaps the same faces.
Any capital will do for them—
not Moscow.
The zone holds no fear for them.

 So why are they not there?
At least in the Special Military Operation.
And who gives them the orders?
A stalemate all around us.

 Who are these saboteurs?
Torpedo, who lost at cards,
or the one who drank his life to the dregs.

 Who crossed the border at night
and at dawn, like a hawk,
sank his claws into the dugout,
tearing the drone operators apart…

 He did not run—he only fell back,
and bought his freedom.
He had no chance left—
and became forever a hero of the SMO.

 He brought death to the occupiers,
played out every talent he had—
the lights went dark.
In its cruelty
death is beautiful.

 At home an old mother waits.
The road to the grave already leads her.
She will never see her fledgling return.

 A neighbour will come and tell her of her son—
she gave the hero her whole life.
The sleepless nights she will never forget.

 But often a higher force
breaks the entire deal.
And all that was—is beaten into dust.

 Their names no one knows.
Once more they stubbornly decorate the wrong men.

 The familiar circus takes the stage again,
and keeps every prize for itself.
While he remains faceless,
his shadow absent even from the poster.

 The circus roars.
Backstage stands the arbiter.
He stands.
He is silent.

 Absurdity has no end.
In the place of justice—emptiness.
And there is no Face.