The wind rises, and the days grow short.
In a trench is a group of men. They sit together, but each is alone in his thoughts.
Happier times in the public market? Performing on the sports field? Father swinging the scythe in the wheatfield? Your wife? Your children?
You are going to die. You know this. You are among the last holdouts as the Bolsheviks destroy all resistance throughout Russia. Your position is surrounded, and the Bolsheviks are ready to crush you beneath the weight of their guns and armour. All of you are going to die, in today's battle or another that will soon follow.
This is not the worst. Your family are class enemies. They will die too. Your only hope may be that your children are young enough to be spared and adopted into a new family. Maybe you have sung enough to them that they will hear your voice, see your face--in dreams.
They have made no secret of their plans. The churches will be destroyed, the Men of Cloth--all will be gone. Every cultural touchstone that has given your life meaning will soon be wiped from the earth.
Someone begins to sing.
A song of a blind, dying man, who is asking for help to cross the tumult of the public square so he can die in peace in the fields of his youth. (Spoiler - he doesn't make it)
You join in.
In a trench is a group of men. They sit together, but each is alone in his thoughts.
Happier times in the public market? Performing on the sports field? Father swinging the scythe in the wheatfield? Your wife? Your children?
You are going to die. You know this. You are among the last holdouts as the Bolsheviks destroy all resistance throughout Russia. Your position is surrounded, and the Bolsheviks are ready to crush you beneath the weight of their guns and armour. All of you are going to die, in today's battle or another that will soon follow.
This is not the worst. Your family are class enemies. They will die too. Your only hope may be that your children are young enough to be spared and adopted into a new family. Maybe you have sung enough to them that they will hear your voice, see your face--in dreams.
They have made no secret of their plans. The churches will be destroyed, the Men of Cloth--all will be gone. Every cultural touchstone that has given your life meaning will soon be wiped from the earth.
Someone begins to sing.
A song of a blind, dying man, who is asking for help to cross the tumult of the public square so he can die in peace in the fields of his youth. (Spoiler - he doesn't make it)
You join in.
