When all is said and done, no literature can outdo the cynicism of real life; you won't intoxicate with one glass someone who has already drunk up a whole barrel. - Anton Chekhov
In Daghestan, no cloud its hot sun cloaking,
A bullet in my side, I lay without
Movement or sound, my wound still fresh and
And drop by drop my Hfeblood trickling out.
Stretched on the sand I lay, and darkly round me
The jutting hills hung motionless. ... Upon
Their tops the sun poured full; its bright rays
And burnt me too-but I slept soundly on.
I dreamt about my homeland and a merry
And glittering feast where all was noise and glee
And where young wives, flower-garlanded, in airy
And lightsome talk indulged, and spoke of me.
But there was one who sat there pensive, buried
In thought remote: alone she waxed not gay.
By sorrowful dreams her youthful soul was carried,
Why, only Heaven knew, far, far away.
'Twas Daghestan's bright vale that she did dream of -
A man lay there whom she had known of old.
A black wound in his side gaped and a stream of
Blood from it came that, slowing, fast turned cold.