The Basement Diaries 49
Somewhere in Ukraine - 06 March 2023 00:30
Days have passed. And I have so little to say. That I can say. So what to say now?
While we have time
Let us learn to sing
While we have time
Between the first note of the siren
And the screaming air
The roaring brick
The crashing glass
While we have time
Let us learn
To make a different music
Let us learn
While we still have time
To make a difference
They are only words. Words to fill a space left vacant by the retreat of joy.
Our training done and yet no role. We are in a holding pattern. Circling like vultures. Waiting for the last gasp of breath to leave the stricken body. Then will we swoop. The fastest, the bravest of us, for the eyes. The soft, exposed flesh of the cheeks. The ears.
Trained, but for what? Trained to wait. Trained to be patient, while politicians in foreign lands, our allies, look to the opinion polls and calculate the true cost to them of fulfilling their oh so public promises. A tank here, a missile there. They have made their bold gestures, taken the public applause and the private thanks. Now, where are they?
Oh, we are an ungrateful people. Taking and demanding more. Spoiled brats, those Ukrainians! And politicians in the west, from the extreme left and the extreme right, mind-fuck buddies, declare, the quickest route to peace is to stop supplying arms to Ukraine.
Our training is done. Now we must wait for our opportunities express that training. Meanwhile, we will be redeployed. Later today, I return to Kyiv with my team. We will be put to good use, I am sure. Until our time comes.
I will return to the basement. And to the others. The Basement Diaries will, once again, make some sort of sense.
Days have passed. And I have so little to say. That I can say. So what to say now?
While we have time
Let us learn to sing
While we have time
Between the first note of the siren
And the screaming air
The roaring brick
The crashing glass
While we have time
Let us learn
To make a different music
Let us learn
While we still have time
To make a difference
They are only words. Words to fill a space left vacant by the retreat of joy.
Our training done and yet no role. We are in a holding pattern. Circling like vultures. Waiting for the last gasp of breath to leave the stricken body. Then will we swoop. The fastest, the bravest of us, for the eyes. The soft, exposed flesh of the cheeks. The ears.
Trained, but for what? Trained to wait. Trained to be patient, while politicians in foreign lands, our allies, look to the opinion polls and calculate the true cost to them of fulfilling their oh so public promises. A tank here, a missile there. They have made their bold gestures, taken the public applause and the private thanks. Now, where are they?
Oh, we are an ungrateful people. Taking and demanding more. Spoiled brats, those Ukrainians! And politicians in the west, from the extreme left and the extreme right, mind-fuck buddies, declare, the quickest route to peace is to stop supplying arms to Ukraine.
Our training is done. Now we must wait for our opportunities express that training. Meanwhile, we will be redeployed. Later today, I return to Kyiv with my team. We will be put to good use, I am sure. Until our time comes.
I will return to the basement. And to the others. The Basement Diaries will, once again, make some sort of sense.
