'Doway, doway', the soldier shouted,
moving them on with much impatience,
they were not able to go any faster,
kids, handwagons and their lives' belongings
were not salvation but a hindrance for them all.
He took his filthy and mud crusted Kalatshnykov
and shot them all before they reached the town.
'What is the diffference', he asked himself,
a few more bodies in this war, and then he saw
a timid movement in the pile of bodies, 'life',
more out of shame and guilt he aimed again
and killed the final remnants of the human spirit.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem