General, I fold. Our maps are crap.

                               J. Brodsky

two violinists

run

from the ruined Philharmonic

in a quiet "we wil be"

 through the battlefield

finally one of them falls,

wounded

while the second one turns back

and shoulders the first

to pull

the first endures pain for long

and suddenly starts to yell:

symon,

come on,

what the hell?

symon,

your sweetheart was cheating on you with me,

and now

she is back to you to betray you

again:

do you still think you’re a real man?

cause the man in you turned into vapor, gone

with the wind, with the rain

after all, you hold your bow wrong,

you carry me in a wrong way

you and me could be anyone, we could be not

the musicians at all, but the empire started

this damned blitz-krieg; we don’t take part in this art,

and the coalition doesn’t care how I hurt

the commander has no ear for music, so

as a conductor he’s useless, he’ll never hear the war

look we’re stuck, symon, i can’t stand it any more

so, for the sake of our sons leave me here, symon,

we’d better get out of this mess one by one

you're a weakling, symon, so you should go alone

yeah, embrace your son and tell him he’s my son

you’re a mama’s boy,

symon! -

he heard as he ran on