Vadim Kruglov’s Father Wishes to Commemorate His Son with this Poem <3 <3 <3

When the Last Russian Dies By Vlad Seletski (translated from Russian) When the last Russian fades away, The rivers will turn from their way. Honor, conscience, feeling gone, And stars no longer shining on. When the last Russian breath is stilled, The Russian spirit lost, unfilled, The earth will empty, bare, undone, The world will pale, bereft of sun. No Russian ballet’s noble art, No fields of Russia to impart, No poet’s genius, fierce and true, Shall rise from Russian soil anew. The balalaika’s song will cease, No pipes, no bells, no tales of peace, No fathers’ songs, no grandfathers’ lore, No Russian fables anymore. The Russian vastness, swept away, The circle dance will break, decay, And where the Russian feast once stood, The hot dog takes its place for good. When Russian spirit melts to naught, And Russia sinks to Lethe’s thought, Vodka replaced by schnapps and gin, And matzah takes the bread within. Patriot’s fire replaced by gold, Love as contract, bought and sold, And sacred union, pure, divine, Corrupted into base decline. The Russian soldier won’t defend A weaker land, a fallen friend. And Hell will claim, with endless strife, The traitors, demons, and all life. Then Anglo-Saxons, in delight, Will stage their bloody, endless night. The ruble lost, while euro, dollar, Will buy the world, both weak and holler.