Not childish

And once again children are playing at war. Above them the sky is voloshkovo clear. I marvel at the “warriors” and I won’t forget: What is meant here is “our own”, and what is called “separatism”. And here dreams flow into mothers And hot prayers are shaking the sky. God, there, far away, blue blue, But no one needs prayers. I to the rope of blue cranes The bailiff crane is another timid one. I will no longer walk on Father’s land, I haven’t ripened the cherry for anyone yet. I fell into mother's arms, And the children will be thrown into war again...