Bloody Rain (tribute to Rossiyane)

I looked out my window, I hadn't looked there in a long time. My twelfth floor allowed me to observe the landscape: Like a torrent from mountain cliffs — a red rain from black clouds. What is this strange rain? It is blood pouring from the sky. Blood on cars, on flowers. Blood on sleds, blood on lips. Blood on the window frame glass Pouring, as if from open wounds. And people's faces are made of wax. Blood seeps straight into the brain. Like a worm burrowing into a corpse, It pours from the drainpipes. In a fratricidal war To some — death, to some — glory. Some were stood against the wall, Some were crucified on the cross. The blood of people from all times poured down in a single rain. It entered every home as an indelible stain. But then who will have the strength to stop this rain? Who will tear away the veil of black clouds? Who will reveal to us the face of heaven? Well, who? No one. Women and men are unrecognizable beneath the wrinkles. Day after day, life will pass. Look — it is raining. It is raining. It is.