When my country accepts foreign proportions as obviousness - the steel smashes to pieces on a tree; when my country does not defend the honourof the fallen, and their bodies against desecration - is a question about the identity not to raise in poetry? I check in myselfhow the tender is putfor the soul of the wingstrodden into the mud. Everyone could seethe power that acceleratesthe lifenoticeably only on the remains of something great. And those who did not noticehave even got the azure second-hand.
