A small, bald man with an elephantine ego has decided that peace must perish.
He is old, decrepit and dismal,
desperate for the power that has passed him by,
clinging with callous, skeletal fingers to the sands of time that still remain,
unable to accept that even if he holds his hands tightly together,
they are bound to blow from his hands,
flying on the wind anyway,
because time is never going to be told what to do,
not even by a dictator.
Then there is you.
The future, found on an island,
brave and defiant as certain death sails towards you.
The old man longs for your fear,
but you deny him,
unafraid to defy him, for your home, and for your freedom.
When you see yourself as sunflower seeds in the soil,
and when the next sunset is so uncertain,
your body full of grief and adrenaline,
there is only one thing to do.
Push down on the radio,
feed your young lungs with anxious air one last time and cry,
“Russian warship, go fuck yourselves!”
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