One morning,the bugle
which is a trumpet in uniform ,
called a young father to dig a trench
He would have preferred to continue
growing the roses in his garden ,
rather than reap laurels .
But you must obey the duty ...
And then, in the evening ,they told him :
\'\' You have to change your language
and flag or leave ,
just to the neighbor\'s house ! \'\'
The roses in the garden ,continued to grow
in beauty and wisdom ,always speaking
the language of flowers ...
And then,when the son turned 20 ,
others have returned .
Not far away, just from the land of neighbors.
They told him :
\'\' You are our child and blood ,
defend your homeland ! \'\'
- \'\' You know you have to die
when dad is from here
and mum from nowhere ! \'\'
The brothers also wage war
on each other ,to inherite
a trampled hawthorne sanctuary.
And not looking at each other
across a border ,
that in their gleaming palaces
princes in parrot battle dress
have absentmindeadly
drawn at sunset ...
The child fell in the grass
wet with dew .
And the ancient continued
to breathe in the scent
of the roses in the garden ,
for so many years ...
The ederly, you know ,
live long after turmoil and torment ,
putting the medals
into the same memory box,
when the bugle call ceased .
And only the dew of dawn
will cover the remains of the son ...
The princes are weary
in their concrete gardens .
Understanding only
the fiery speech of thistles...