We strolled down the streets of Kyiv

One balmy August afternoon,

Past burned-out skeletons of tanks,

Which might as well live on the moon.

 

We understand this rough display,

To boost a noble people’s mood,

But battles rage not far away,

Where wrecks like this are caked in blood.

 

Conflict is a harsh performance;

You enemy is marked as bad.

But truth, uncomfortable, still looms;

All war is desperate and sad.

 

We should feel pity for these tanks,

Ridiculous though that may seem.

Their universe is bolted on ;

Those trapped inside can only scream.