Ypa!

ypa!

Every day is a bloody struggle
over a single square foot,
A sovereign territory,
A free-born republic filled

with battle hardened veterans,
Armed with sharpened tools
and taught by the
Stalingrad school of street fighting,

Directed from the highest floor of
Pavlov’s place where radios receive
words from the STAVKA outside,
observing movement from house to house,

Rubble piled tall in front
over which rows of caps clamber,
No land for me behind the Volga.

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