i think one day i will write something terribly logical and bitterly ironic about this day they ignore, because the one side thinks they lost the war, and the other side refuses to admit they are not in moscow. i mean, the 8th of may. i mean, the day when the western world lost half of its totalitarian civilisations.
the other half remained. and now, sitting in the ruins of this other half, people try really hard to forget. and by forgetting this, they forget who they are. and there can be no peace, no reconciliation, whilst we forget.
(interlinear translation mine)
white snow, grey ice,
the ground all broken up.
and a city spreads like a blanket
within a loop of a highway.
but there are clouds high over the city,
the clouds block out the light from above.
but there is yellow smoke over the city,
the city of two thousand years
under the star they are calling the sun.
two thousand years – of war,
a war without any good reason.
a war that is fought by the young,
a war that keeps out the wrinkles.
there is blood perfectly red,
in an hour you see only dirt,
in some more, you see it grow flowers,
then it is alive again,
warmed up in the rays of the star
they are calling the sun
and we know it has always been so,
that the fates favor those
who live to different laws
those bound to die young.
he does not remenber the ‘ayes’ and ‘nays’
he does not remember the ranks and the names.
he would reach out to the stars,
and soar up there, without thinking it a dream
and then fall, burned by that star
they are calling the sun…