Stitched starchy under collar with a vigour And grey tunic tightly buttoned to the end - And here they are lying on the trigger The bloodless phalanges of the officerís hand. Itís time! Who knows if the time is right? But here it is, truly near: Oh, how short the gesture from the holster on the side To the clean shaven temple by the ear! The movement stopped, and blown off From designated target tiny hair - On accurately shaven temple With a smile Death from the muzzle stared. A raised brow could be seen from the side, And near, something was beating and trembling - In the temple, not yet spilled blood Was pulsating, namely objecting. And before it dared to rush in a single breath From the ear in to the brain, across towards the nape, - Suddenly stared intently vigilant Death On pitiful and frenzied vein... Death miscalculated-it was too slow: Now go back to the holster and there you lie! Thatís how Death for the first time saw close From birth hated Life.
© Anatoli Trojanowski. Translation, 2018