Come and See (Klimov, 1985)

My eyes wince at the sting of smoke, as I cast my weak-kneed gaze at the blanket of fire. I hear the muffled calls of agony over the boisterous howls of victory. So I sink my fingers deep into the cold and muddy earth, too blistered to bend, and dig for the dry, warm security of my home. My home, so free from the plundering stomp of conquering boots, and the arrogance of tyranny, earth that has never tasted the salt of blood, short of a humble sacrifice of beast. A place where my family is freed from their martyrship, a brand cast upon them with the blunt led that pierced them.

I care nothing for the ideals of fascists and communists alike. Whose ideals are bested in the desperate cries of murder? What victory is calculated in the falling of ash? What stone is worth a claim, over the grave of rotting flesh? What trophy is that of a border, earned through the rabid rape in the name of a frothing tyrant?

My lip is scarred, from biting it in hatred for so long.