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 officer’s hand.

It’s 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!
That’s how Death for the first time saw close
From birth hated Life.