>>64256494
I come front line, is cold wind, smoke in air.
I ask soldier in trench, "Where my unit? You see them?"
Old drunk man in chair point with bottle at rubble pile.
"They sleep there, for a while. That place… finished."
I walk more. Find burned command post, roof fall inside.
One officer, half alive, blood on face, whisper to me:
"Commander… he was Prihgozin. He take charge.
But plane go down in fire. We lost him. He is finished too."
Night fall, I find tank yard. All machines black metal, no crew.
Young boy sit on track, eyes empty. He say nothing, only point.
I understand without words: all men gone, only smoke left.
"That whole company," I think, "it is no more."
I keep walking, but every place is same:
chairs with no men, fires with no hands to feed them,
voices cut short like wires in ground.
Each time I ask, answer is same, but spoken different—
“finished… lost… no more… never again.”
At end of road, I stand alone.
Front is wide, but no unit for me.
I think: maybe war itself already finished,
just nobody tell yet.
