There was a hoary old one clutching a hubble bubble
And an eighteen year old, yet to grow a stubble.
With his hubble bubble the old man the girl poked.
The boy slapped her, while on tears she choked.
Said he, ”I will drink anything, so long as it is liquor,”
With one stocky leg made as if to viciously kick her.
They brought the curly haired one to his knees with whips,
Mouthing invectives, sneers playing on bulbous lips.
They clambered into a monolithic waiting truck.
The boy squirmed on the ground, thunderstruck.
Into the back of the truck the girl they bundled,
Switched off the headlights and onward it trundled.
Then someone pulled out a gun and aimed at the boy,
Heartlessly erasing those moments of unvarnished joy.
I stood transfixed in the shadow of the trees.
My knees started shaking, stronger grew the breeze.
A chill passed up my spine, and I violently shuddered.
Was I witness to a boy just being brutally murdered?
I shook my head, absolutely traumatized and frazzled
When I was by a sudden luminosity dazzled.
Fog Over the River -- Yevgeniy Burmakin