I remember times long gone:
Here are the English yeomen in green camisoles led by Robin Hood and the Black Knight storming the castle-fortress of the villain Fron-de-Boeuf … But – the Russians are at war with Napoleon. French infantry in blue uniforms in orderly ranks are attacking the Russian redoubt – bayonets at the ready, in front – the general on a white horse (every general must have a white horse!). Cannons are firing from the redoubt, clouds of real smoke are erupting from their vents- these are not scraps of cotton wool from mom’s first aid kit, as you might think.
There is a real merciless battle: bullets whistle, cannonballs explode, killed and wounded are falling … This is a fight to the last soldier!
I look out the window – it is already getting dark and snowflakes are falling silently … “Until the last soldier?” So, when all wars on earth are over, there will be a soldier who will be the last to leave the battle …
… I am already 60, but somewhere in me still lives that long-time naive boy. I am painting a portrait of the Last Soldier. He looks through me at something that I am not given to know.
In his gaze – all the sadness, pain and wisdom of all soldiers who have gone through all the wars. On his helmet – delicate and fragile poppy flowers, as a memory of those comrades and enemies who were not destined to become the Last and whose souls were lost somewhere among the stars, like sparks of the dying fire of the Last War …
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