Pressing towards the light like the layers of skin
The crowd of watching faces from under the moved turf
The look one behind the other - up
But there are no ruins. This is not a deserted borough
Once uncovered - they scream with musty lips
They fall through hands decayed inside
In a ditch that will be empty never again
But there are no crosses. This is not an ancestral tomb
Buckles and buttons with an eagle in rust
On thе bowls of skulls - bugs race
Rotten photos, memorabilia, maps of citiеs and villages -
But there are no weapons. This is not a battlefield
Maybe all of them were sick with the same disease?
The same round injuries above the nape of the neck
Through which God's gift flowed into the earth -
But there are no signs. This is not a plague pit
There still grow the trees that have seen it
The earth still remembers the shape of the shoe, the taste of blood
The sky knows the language in which the commands have fallen
Before the shots have been fired, in which it still sounds
But there are witnesses - alive so biased
Anyway, to listen to them - you need to enter the zone
On their silence their lord can count -
The lord of the air and the earth and imprisoned trees
This is the world without death, the world of death without murder
The world of murder without an order, an order without a voice
The world of a voice without a body and a body without God
The world of God without a name, a name - without fate
There is only one side of the world like this
Where something that doesn't exist - still calls for revenge
Where the grave isn't baptised even with laughter
A ditch not missed - for an eagle, a hawk
[SOUNDS OF GUNSHOTS]
"At certain sunrise, in Katyń forest
Soviets were shooting at us."