Dear friends,

Over the past few years one of my main efforts was to try to convince as many people as possible that Russia was preparing for war.  I also tried to caution about the completely misguided notion that because the Russian people feared war (they do!) they somehow were not ready for it (they are!).  I tried logical, rational arguments.  They I switched to an angry rant.  Now I am going to appeal to your hearts: just listen to this very famous WWII Russian song, watch these images, read the lyrics (translated by Scott) and just try to feel with your heart what war means or, better, what if *feels* to the so-called “mysterious Russian soul”.  Then think of the faces of Trump, Mattis, May, Macron and the rest of them and reach your own conclusions.

This is not an argument, you will either “feel it” or not.  I hope you do.

Hugs and cheers to all,

The Saker

the end of Great Patriotic war song by Novikov and Oshanin, performed by Mark Bernes

translated by Scott Humor

Ah, the roads, dust and foggy mist,
Angst, and chills, and worries, and tall steppe weeds.
Not a soul knows of its fate,
could your wings be folded in the midst of steppe?

Dust is swirling over boots, along roads, along fields.
All around blaze is raging, pierced by bullets’ rings.

Ah, the roads, dust and foggy mist,
Angst, and chills, and worries, and tall steppe weeds.

Burst of gunshot, raven descends,
Buddy mine lays lifeless in this wilderness.
But the road keeps on going, the dust keeps on swirling,
All around land is burning, not Russian – foreign land.

Land of pine trees, sun lights up the dawn,
Mother on her threshold waits for son’s return.
And along unending roads, along steppes, along fields,
We are being watched and followed by our mothers’ eyes.

Ah, the roads, dust and foggy mist,
Angst, and chills, and worries, and tall steppe weeds.
Snow or wind storms, friends, let’s behest,
To each one those roads our eternal quest.

——————————————————

Эх, дороги

Эх, дороги, пыль да туман,
Холода, тревоги да степной бурьян…
Знать не можешь доли своей,
Может, крылья сложишь посреди степей.

Вьётся пыль под сапогами степями, полями;
А кругом бушует пламя да пули свистят.

Эх, дороги, пыль да туман,
Холода, тревоги да степной бурьян…

Выстрел грянет, ворон кружит,
Твой дружок в бурьяне неживой лежит.
А дорога дальше мчится, пылится, клубится;
А кругом земля дымится, чужая земля.

Эх, дороги, пыль да туман,
Холода, тревоги да степной бурьян…

Край сосновый, солнце встаёт,
У крыльца родного мать сыночка ждёт.
И бескрайними путями, степями, полями
Всё глядят вослед за нами родные глаза.

Эх, дороги, пыль да туман,
Холода, тревоги да степной бурьян…
Снег ли ветер, вспомним, друзья,
Нам дороги эти позабыть нельзя.